Eternal Penance: The 41st Hunger Games
by bobothebear
Summary: "Twenty-three lives were never going to be enough. Yesterday's mistakes will follow us to the grave and beyond, not meant to be forgiven or forgotten. These Games we play are our repayment. This is their promised future. This is yesterday's timeless fault. This is our eternal penance." Written alongside The Lunar Lioness and Aspect of One.
1. Midst of Chaos

_"In the midst of chaos lies opportunity."_

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**Day Nine, The Fortieth Hunger Games**

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**Lorayn Alden, District Two Female**

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How long is he going to make me wait? For how long will he deny me the pleasure of either his death or my own? Stalling will do him no good now. Payton and I have to meet soon; later is non-existent. We are the finale. The curtain call for the 40th Hunger Games. Every show must end. Every act comes to a close.

Even this one.

In the big top where the acrobats once flew and the animal tamers guided their pets through brightly colored hoops, I stand on the blood-stained ground. It's like a timeline for the Games; at the door, you have the pool that was once the boy from Nine's. At least before my blade was embedded into his throat. Closer in, next to the ring which marks the center circle, you see the drops of Meredith's crimson. That was when I caught her trying to escape with our supplies on the first night. Lucky for me, paranoia is an excellent way to ignore sleep. The first cut left a trail that went all way to just outside the ring before she stopped moving and started dying.

Scattered all around the circle is my own blood. Some of which is because I got hit, others bits are there because letting it stung, letting it burn and cling to my skin helped me deal with it. Deal with what I'd done. Seeing the marks on my arms and legs proved it, that I had killed. I killed a boy and a girl. I killed people who had families and friends. I killed people.

In return for their death, they gave me scars. Scars which only I can feel.

I need them to know they are there. I need the Districts, the Captiol, the tributes to know. To know I am now scarred because of what I have done. Their blood, what little remains of it, will forever mark my hands.

What little of my life I have left I will spend in pain. My punishment will be short but sweet. No one else will punish me, they would said I did what I had to in order to survive. Therefore, I shall be my own judge, I shall decide what course of action needs to be taken.

The options are limited as there is only one.

A life sentence of internal torment is what awaits me in my future. I look forward to it with an ironic smile.

Until then, I'm forced to feel the pain of living. Every part of my being aches. My legs because all of the walking and the running and the standing. My arms because every time I think I can let go of my blades, a faraway stone is kicked and the ripple of its noise won't let my grip slip. My mind because if my statistics come in and say I've slept more than two hours in a row during the entire Games, I will be wholeheartedly surprised since I've just been told a lie by the Gamemakers. My heart aches most of all. What's left of it aches.

With his last breath, the boy from Nine cracked my heart from deep inside where you couldn't see it.

With those bright green eyes of hers, Meredith devastated me. She looked not at me but into me, straight into my chest where her gaze caused the cracks to appear of the surface of my heart. A little jolt was the only thing it needed to fall, to fall and leave me for the rest of my life collecting the pieces of my splintered soul.

The little jolt came in the form of the girl from Three. She was small, thirteen. Young, free, immature, the things she should have been. I had seen her with her allies, a chirpy bunch of… of children. Nevertheless, she isn't. None of them are. Not anymore.

The Games had changed her. The others died before the true effect kicked in, but she lived long enough to feel her joy seep from each cut, each wound. A child dragged up the queue to face death way before her time. Death is accepting of everything and anything. It doesn't care. It doesn't care if it's tomorrow or the day after that or a week or ten years from now. It will take you when you arrive at its door.

It knows you're not meant to be there now. But it doesn't care.

What makes it worse was I was the one doing the dragging. I took her to death's door and when it gazed down at me and smiled, my heart fell. It hit the ground and it shattered.

Thousands of pieces that will forever be lost in all corners of this arena.

In my sorry state, I've walked over in a haze to the bottom row of the bleachers that line around the circus ten. I lower myself down onto it and lean back, keeping my eyes on the entrances.

Please come soon Payton, I need it to be over. The Games or my life. Something needs to end.

Payton was always the favorite. The trainers thought he was the most gifted of our year. The Capitol was in love with his and Grant's story. Back-to-back Career victors from District Two who just happened to be brothers. Those oblivious fools couldn't have it written a better tale if they tried.

The Academy chose me to accommodate to their fairytale ending. No self-respecting trainer could believe I of all trainees could win. Not then, not now. I'm here to fulfill Payton's destiny. I'm his last step to victory, freedom, fame. And I will make it the longest step of his life. Because in reality, that's all I can do now. I'm no Victor.

I would have to live with not only my scars but the ones I caused. The ones I put on Grant.

I can't win. I could never win. I just never realized. Until now.

Something moves in the corner of my eye. I'm up and into my stance before I know what I'm doing and he's just looking at me. Payton's standing there, a shadowed figured in the doorway, a pike held rather loosely in his hand. The only sound is my breaths that come quickly and quietly. Anything could set me off.

"Do you like keeping me waiting, Payton?" I hiss.

His face is as stalwart as it has ever been. Always in control, always knows what he's doing. I'm the opposite. I've never known how he does the things he does and I never will.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he replies. How can he be relaxed, I don't understand. This is the finale. Do or die. No more fight or flight. There is only victory and death now. Relaxation isn't supposed to play a role now, but it runs freely on Payton's face.

He thinks he's going to win. He'd never say it aloud, but I can see it in his eyes. In the way he stands. He's already one foot out of this arena. His mind has practically already left. But I'm prepared to drag him back to this arena for eternity.

As much I don't want to feel anything, I don't want to die. I'm sorry Payton, I am truly sorry. I'm too far in to go back now, and the only way forward is through you.

"You know what," I say with a smile, "I wish I could just let you win. I wish I had the strength to put down my weapons and beg for a quick death."

His hand tightens its grip of his weapon. His jaw clenches as he studies me carefully.

"So why don't you?" Payton breathes lightly.

"I'm done following you around. I'm done with living in other people's shadows." I turn to the arena, surely laced with cameras in every corner. "You want blood? You want screams?" I can almost hear the screams from the Capitol.

My dead eyes return to Payton. "You heard them. Let's give them what they want."

I take off towards him, my arms tense, ready to swing my twin blades as soon I'm within striking range. In the few seconds it takes me to reach him though, Payton's set himself to parry, letting my blades hit off his pike before bringing it down and trying to drive it through my side.

Turning my body to dodge around it, I take a step forward, trying to take advantage of his position. Somehow though, Payton manages to parry me again and this time it was him trying to take advantage of my unbalance. However, I find the strength to push aside his pike just enough so it misses.

This is how it carries on for who knows how long. Back and forth between the two of us; attacking, dodging and parrying. Strangely, it's very similar to all of the sessions we had back in the training center in Two. Occasionally, someone would land a hit; nonetheless, it would only be a glancing blow which the other would blow off and continue fighting.

We're both beginning to tire, we both becoming slower and more sloppy. This will be decided not by who makes the smartest moves but who makes the first mistake.

The audience must be very surprised since it's their golden boy who makes the mistake.

During the fight, we had moved closer to the ring. Sweat and blood pouring off us as I go in for yet another slice. Payton takes a step back to try and get his footing. He ends up stepping on the ring itself and in a second, he's stumbling and falling onto the ground, the pike hitting the ground before he does.

The last thing Payton does is sit up before I move my blade across his throat, revealing a crimson spray that covers everything around it. His suit, the ground, my body. A few seconds later, he's back on the ground again and a few seconds after that, I've forced my blade through his torso and into his heart.

The cannon follows for the last time.

My hand slips off the blade in Payton, leaving it there. My other hand lets its blade go. I turn them around so I can see my palms. My palms which are once again coated in blood.

Twisting them in front of me just confirms it. Just confirms I've done it again.

Raising my right hand to my face, I drag my index finger down my face from my eye to my jaw. I lift my face so the darling audience can see it clearly. For my tears will no longer be clear and innocent. From this day on, they will reek of pain and suffering and death. Crimson droplets that will show the world who I truly am.

My own tears will forever scar me. Just as they should.

_"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games, Lorayn Alden of District Two!"_

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**A/N: Welcome to Eternal Penance: The Forty-First Hunger Games! Submission guidelines are on my profile. District-specific information is provided in addition to basic Panemian history in my verse. The Victors' blog and the tribute count are both on my profile, as well. **

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**As many of you have come to realize, this is a collaboration between myself, Aspect of One, and The Lunar Lioness, who wrote this piece. **

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**From now until the 8th of February, submissions will be open. The second prologue and the blog will be posted on the eighth. I'd suggest sending your tributes in early as spots tend to get harder to grab as the deadline comes to an end. Have fun with your submissions! We're all very excited to see what you have in store for us.**

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**If you have any questions or concerns regarding anything at all, message me. Otherwise, we'd love to hear from you in a review! Until next time! **


	2. Scars

_"A scar is a healing. After injury, a scar is what makes you whole." _

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_"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games, Lorayn Alden of District Two!"_

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**Lorayn Alden, Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games**

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It still feels as though Payton's blood still stains me. Crimson stark on my suit, my skin, my weapon.

Incessantly, shaking as I did so, I scratch at myself. The skin reddens.

I need to get him off me.

I must.

The pounding of my heart refuses to cease.

I am no Victor. I am a tribute. Forever and always, my heart, my mind, my blood all belong to this arena. I belong to this arena.

"-rayn. Lorayn!"

Something grabs my right hand, and I whip around ready to lash out. Minet grabs my other hand. She stares me down, expression tense, lips set into a grim line.

"Calm down," she says gently. Slight frustration tinges her tone at the same time. "Don't tear your skin apart before we reach District Two."

"It doesn't matter," I snap.

My voice sounds hoarse even to my ears.

Freeing my hands, I scoot away and whatever my mentor says next goes unheeded. Instead, I look around the train carriage. It looks the same as when I headed into the Capitol. Now, I go back. I wish things remained the same. My left hand drifts up to touch the bun my stylist has tied my hair into. I don't know if it suits me or not. I don't know how what I'm wearing looks like on me. Thinking of looking into mirrors and seeing my reflection scares me.

I don't want to know what's in my eyes.

What I will see.

My hands wring the hem of my blouse. The scars I've gotten in the arena remain with me. The Capitol glorifies it. The district will probably fawn over it as battle scars. Me? I bear the weight of the four lives I have taken.

It is burdensome.

It is a relief they remain with me.

I won't forget them. Not as long as they stay on me, mark me.

"Are you even listening to me?" Minet bites out.

"What?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

"Never mind," she sighs irritably. Apologizing would be proper. I only stare at her.

Silence stretches on between us and I turn to watch the passing greenery. I thought volunteering and winning the Hunger Games would be one of the best things to ever happen to me. I was so naïve. Killing people leaves a mark on you.

It can start to destroy you from the inside bit by bit.

The lifeless body of the young girl from Three flashes into mind. An urge to scream rises. And before I know it, I have my head clutched in my hands, chest heaving as I desperately try to breathe. Something presses in on me, leaves my chest tight. Anxiety claws away at me. I whimper.

Why won't the tears come?

Someone lowers me onto the floor. The contact with the ground brings me back to my senses a little.

"Take deep breaths," a masculine voice instructs. "Inhale, count to ten then exhale."

He repeats his words in a steady voice. I cling to it as if it were my only lifeline. Each breath leaves me a little more panicked though, and I end up clinging onto his arm. I do not know how long it takes but the sudden surge of panic finally ebbs out of me. Exhaustion washes over me. Collapsing in a heap against the sofa, surroundings finally coming into focus, hushed voices exchange words above me and I feel the presence of one of the speakers leave. A click echoes through the empty carriage. Grant suddenly appears in my vision.

"How are you feeling now?"

Oh, Minet left.

I guess even she got sick of me like the escort did.

"Better." My voice trembles.

His brows furrow together. Wordlessly, he helps me back onto the sofa then disappears somewhere. Silverware clinks behind me and he comes back with a cup of hot tea.

"Chamomile tea. It should calm you down more."

I accept it with a small smile. "Thank you."

For the next few minutes, the peace is blissful. I sip away at my tea feeling the tension leave me slowly. My hands grip the teacup tightly. Staring into the clear liquid, I am vaguely aware of Grant looking at me. His scrutiny leaves me shifty. The silence goes from tranquil to unbearable.

"You haven't really been cooperative," he remarks dryly at last.

I purse my he view me as the murderer of his younger brother or the Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games?

"I've been going with what the Capitol wants of me for a while now," I shoot back bitterly. "Can't I at least do what I want away from the cameras?"

"If by that, you mean wallowing in self-pity, then go ahead. But don't push away Minet who's only trying to help you. You'll face the cameras once you step out of this carriage. The people will be clamouring for your attention, your triumphant smile."

"That's all they ever care about."

"Yes."

He regards me with a cool expression. I killed his brother. Part of me expects him to show a bit more emotions. More anger, resentment. Not trying to…to help me.

"Volunteering was a mistake."

"Why?" He does not sound surprised.

The question unravels me.

"It isn't worth it! What's the point? I don't feel as if I gained anything. I only lost. This… If I knew it would turn out like this, I wouldn't have volunteered at all. I hate it. I hate myself. I hate everything."

"You don't gain anything from the Hunger Games," he grinds out. The controlled fury in his voice makes me flinch. Looking up at him, my eyes meeting his, part of me shrivels up under his glare. "You only get to keep your life. And what have you lost? You didn't lose your life! You didn't lose anyone! Maybe you only lost part of your humanity, fuck if I know. You killed my brother. So don't come and say you regret any of this."

Hands balled into fists, he stands and strides out. Something shatters in the other room and I cringe at the shrill scream of the escort followed by her lecturing.

I killed his brother.

I murdered to win.

I wish I died. Anything to avoid what I face now.

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Even before the train pulls into the station, I can hear the roar of the crowd from outside. Anxiously wringing the hem of my blouse, I look to the two mentors for any form of comfort. Only Minet offers me a kindly smile. Grant stonily stares ahead. I suppose I deserve it.

"Remember to smile, darling," the escort chirps.

The train slides to a halt. I take a deep breath. The door opens.

Whatever could have been said to herald my arrival goes over my head. For a moment, I stand in the doorway of the train carriage, lost, then I see myself on the screen enacted somewhere at the back, and I hurriedly plaster on a smile. The flashing lights once left me skittish but I have grown used to them in my time in the Capitol. A calm descends over me and I step off the train. Waving at the people, I let my smile blossom into a grin.

Glancing at the screen to see that I am acting my part well, I turn my gaze back to the crowd to search out my mother. It takes a while but I find her eventually somewhere in the middle. Our eyes meet and she smiles. Somehow, I think she understands even without me saying anything. Then a microphone is thrust in front of me. Swallowing, I prepare myself for the flurry of questions sure to come.

It is an effort not to wring the hem of my blouse.

A few hours later, I step back into my home.

"Mom," I call plaintively, desperation now laced into my voice. For all I've lost… I've not lost her. That much I can be grateful for.

"Lorayn." Her voice is warm as is her welcoming smile.

I rush into her open arms and embrace her tightly, her arms going around me, hand stroking my back.

"Welcome home," she says softly. Silent tears stream down her eyes and through my hair. "We missed you," she says lightheartedly, chuckling a little afterwards. "We missed you."

The words catch in my throat and I feel a lump from in my throat. Letting out a sob, I rest my chin on her shoulder and hug her even tighter. The tears start falling. It feels as though a weight has lifted off my back. I no longer have to hide behind a façade.

"I'm sorry," I cry out. "I'm so sorry. I- I-"

She steps back and I bury my face in my palms. Moments later, something soft presses into my left hand. I take the piece of tissue and wipe my tears away before blowing into it.

"You did what you had to do," is all she says before guiding me to the sofa. "Don't hold it in anymore, Lorayn. You're safe here."

It hurts. It hurts so much on the inside. Now that I no longer have to push all my emotions to a corner, they overwhelm me. I did not realize I bottled up so much. The grief is too much.

"I didn't expect it to be like that," I whisper.

Grief for what I have lost. Grief for what I have done.

"It's not honorable at all. It's just a desperate battle for survival."

I look up my mother through my tears. She places one hand on my back, silence accommodating, eyes prompting me to speak what I really, honestly think.

"I'm not a Victor."

I'm not a murderer too.

"I just wanted to live."

I'm just a girl who was terrified of death.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You did what you thought was needed so don't blame yourself over it, Lorayn." She shifts closer and hugs me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Take all the time you need to heal. I'll protect you as your mother."

"Mom," I whimper before burying my face in her shirt, hands clutching desperately onto it.

"I'm here."

And that's all I need to hear.

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**A/N: The blog link is on my profile. How about a shout-out to Aspect of One for a great prologue?  
**

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**Before I say anything else, we want to thank everyone for their submissions. We received over sixty submissions, and it was painstaking to select between them. A lot of submissions were excellent, but we had to turn them away in interest of our plot. We apologize deeply, and we thank you.**

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**Here are your tributes!**

**District One, Luxury  
Female: **Adelaide Marchan  
**Male: **Cohen Veridie

**District Two, Masonry  
****Female: **Shaila Avani  
**Male: **Priston Thame

**District Three, Technology  
****Female: **Letricia Kode  
**Male: **Theon Carter

**District Four, Fishing  
****Female: **Aelia Paralian  
**Male: **Vice Chevallier

**District Five, Power  
****Female: **Metris Plaquerd  
**Male: **Bellamy Glover

**District Six, Transportation  
Female: **Scarlet Marlowe  
**Male: **Thorin Robiquet

**District Seven, Lumber  
****Female: **Maisyn Alvera  
**Male: **Halvard Asbjorn

**District Eight, Textiles  
****Female: **Tarryn Cheverly  
**Male: **Ren Ardaine

**District Nine, Wheat  
****Female: **Kiefer Callistus  
**Male: **Kristopher Runes

**District Ten, Livestock  
****Female: **Arleen Gavelle  
**Male: **Declan Whittacre

**District Eleven, Agriculture  
****Female: **Elora Valeyn  
**Male: **Abner Demerath

**District Twelve, Coal  
****Female: **Aline Carron  
**Male: **Duke Holloway

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**Please check all the districts, as about 75% of all the outer district tributes were requested to be in Five or Eight, for some reason. Again, if your tribute isn't there, we apologize deeply.**

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**In terms of authors, the author of each tribute will be revealed at the end of the story. Basically, we're not telling you. For our own reasons, we've decided to keep that information unknown until the Games come to an end. If you'd like to know then, shoot any of us a PM.**

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**_Which tributes are your early favorites?_**

**_Which tributes aren't?_**

**_Leave a chart of your opinions if you have the time!_**

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**We'll see you soon! Thank you!**


	3. Eternity

_"There's never a beginning to eternity."_

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**Demetrius Saxon, Victor of the Thirty-Third Hunger Games  
District Two**

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Never did it sit right with me.

Training, volunteering, killing. None of it brought me joy. None of it brought me satisfaction or fulfillment. In fact, it brought me nothing but a sense of remorse and emptiness that continues to ebb away at me to this day. However, the emptiness lessens whenever I remember why I did it. I didn't volunteer for myself, I volunteered for my family. Whatever way it turned out, we would all still be together. Either in the warm security of the Victor's Village or in the ever encompassing dark of death.

In all honesty, I didn't know which one I wanted. And I still don't.

Either side of me, I'm surrounding by Victors. From Armia and Cobble to Minet and Cynthia. From Elisia and Grant to me and Lorayn, we make up the greatest number of victors from a single District. Only one thing connects us. We all went into the Games to kill. Sure, it was for different reasons but it still connects us, and it needs to. This is the only slither of a bond we have to share. Without it, we would surely implode.

The mayor is still carrying on with his speech which could be summed up with the words 'Let's become the first District to have three victors in a row!'. I lean over to Ellisia, who sits to my right as she has already began to turn away to try and ignore me. Nevertheless, I carry on.

"I still don't like this," I say hurriedly.

"We know that, Demetrius, but you saying it isn't going to change anything," Ellisia replies. "You didn't like it when the brothers told us they wanted back-to-back victories, you didn't like it when we chose Lorayn because we thought she would be a good stepping stone for Payton and you don't like the fact that we're sending Grant and Lorayn to represent us in the Capitol."

I bite my tongue and let Ellisia face me unopposed. Something akin to barely contained anger contorts her face until the point when her lips move in a snarl.

"We've been over this time after time and we are not discussing this anymore," she grinds out.

Not now am I going to back down. It's only be a matter of minutes until I can't do anything else. I've got to try.

"I don't care about tradition. We can't let Grant take Lorayn, at least not without someone else there," I fire back, my own fury rising to the surface.

Ellisia stares me down for a moment before she takes in a deep breath. She turns back to face the front of the stage and lets it out again. An odd, wistful look enters her eyes as I acknowledge the applause that follows the end of the mayor's speech. Another deep breath and a soft voice appears.

"If he kills her, then so be it."

I bite down hard on my cheek, allowing the familiar taste of blood to flood my mouth. I need it to keep me grounded, otherwise… I don't even want to think about it.

My eyes are focused on the back of the escort whose name somehow manages to slip my mind every year as they reach into the girl's bowl, their hand quick in sniping up a piece of paper that lays on the top. Just as they've unfolded the pale yellow slip, a voice cuts out above the tension.

"I volunteer."

The eighteen year-old section parts like it does every year and out from it, steps forward a lithe girl wearing a dark blue dress embroidered with silver thread. A gift from the academy no doubt. As she makes her way up the stage, wearing a light smile, I acknowledge how much she looks like she could be from District One, what with her striking blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.

Ms. Escort gives the girl a little bow and waits patiently for the return gesture before asking the question everyone in the Capitol is dying to know.

"Hello there, would you mind telling us your name?" She asks politely before handing the microphone over when the girl makes the motion with her hand. The blonde takes it, then twists around to face the crowd, her face all smiles and confidence.

"My name is Shalia Avani," her voice is just the same; all smiles and confidence but there's something else. A softness, a caring edge that makes her words all the more endearing. "I would just like to say it's an honour being chosen to represent District Two, and I hope, that between me and my District Partner, we can succeed in bringing home another Victor."

The crowd stays silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Cynthia nodding her approval at what I presumed to be her chosen trainee's words. Ever the patriot.

Ms. Escort continues to wear a smile as she makes her over to the boy's bowl. This time however, she's barely reached her hand into the bowl when another voice manages to interrupt her movement with a loud shout.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Suddenly, the boys in the eighteen year-old section are not so much moving apart as they are being forcefully pushed apart. Within a second, a boy emerges from the front with a huge grin on his face that stubbornly refuses to leave as he gallops up to the stage and onto the steps. On the stage, he's no less enthusiastic, ripping the microphone out of Ms. Escort's hands before she has the chance to do anything.

He stands on the edge of the stage, grinning for everyone to see.

"I'm Priston Thames," he starts off strongly and while he's taking a pause, he looks at Shalia who gives him a look of pure confusion.

"I'm Priston Thames and this year, District Two, I will be your victor!"

I doubt there is a single person in the whole of District Two who isn't utterly confused right now. Sure, there have been tributes who have been a bit too up for it, none of them had this air of childishness to them. None of them seemed this sincere. It's almost like Priston actually believed he was going to win for sure. Not out of confidence but out of naivety and ignorance. It was odd. Surely the Capitol is already tripping over itself over him.

A blanket of awkward tension falls over the district when it becomes clear Priston isn't going to hand back the microphone, instead keeping it loosely gripped in his fingers. Ms. Escort seems conflicted about what to do so I suppose it's good when Shalia steps towards her District Partner. Quickly, she reaches for the microphone and gently pries it from his hand. He offers no resistance, only a quizzical look as Shalia gives it back to Ms. Escort whose gratitude falls off in waves.

In the hand which once held the microphone, Shalia inserts her own and gives Priston's a little squeeze. I'm unsure whether it was to reassure herself or Priston or neither. Perhaps it was just a gesture of District loyalty to show the other tributes they are together. A united front that will sweep through the Games just like they have done before.

Ms. Escort pays her thanks and the crowd take that as their sign to leave. The two of them are still holding hands as the Peacekeepers move to escort them to the Justice Building. The other victors make their individual journeys down the steps, done for the Games for another year. I can't help but linger and look hopefully at Grant and Lorayn as they remain seated.

Grant has just murmured something about wanting to take Shalia when I feel something wrap around my wrist. I turn around and Ellisia's face fills my vision. After a few seconds, she makes a small motion with her head, one that means we need to go now. The urge to pull back my hand is there but I ignore it. Instead, I nod back and with that, Ellisia starts pulling me along by the slight grip she has on my wrist.

It would be easy to break it. Nevertheless, I no longer feel the need.

There's nothing left that I can do now. I just have to let it happen.

What will happen, happen. And if that is death, then so be it.

* * *

**Vixen Callaire, Victor of the Thirty-First Hunger Games  
****District Six**

* * *

The sickly air seems heavier today.

Seated on stage, I watch the people slowly enter the pens for the Reaping. Their drawn faces and tight-lipped expressions remind me of ten years ago. Except, ten years ago, I had entered the city square with the confidence that I would not be reaped. I wonder who else enters with that confidence. Looking at the crowd again, I catch a few smiles here and there. Not only did I get reaped, my brother was too.

The grief has dulled down somewhat but at times like this, it becomes as fresh as the day he sacrificed himself for me. It threatens to drown me today.

I look to my left and see our mayor talking to Argeliba. The former's face is rosy – a sign of health. Unlike Anya's who was saggy and yellow. She died a number of years ago to Morphling overdose. No one mourned. No one ever does. I doubt anyone was surprised too. I doubt anyone was aware of her death. Even with our new mayor, Morphling is still a problem.

"Dreary day isn't it," Argeliba quips as she comes over to me.

"Makes me think it's going to rain," I answer.

She throws her head back and laughs.

"Maybe today will be the day we can get a potential Victor."

"Oh, darling, everyone can be a potential Victor." She looks at me. "I didn't expect you to win after all."

Or Liam.

I avenged him but vengeance isn't as sweet as some people make it out to be. It does not bring people back to life after all. And in the Hunger Games, it only adds to one more thing that could break you.

Argeliba on the other hand, she is a true Victor. In the sense that she came out of the arena strong. Unbreakable. Me? I left the arena mourning. Not quite broken, but nearly there. The rips in the seams of my own sanity tear farther and farther with every waking second.

"The Reaping is starting." My fellow mentor states.

Tuning out the usual proceedings, I observe the possible tributes. An eerie silence has now descended over the square though not everyone looks on in rapt attention. Constantly seeing propaganda gets tiring after a while. It numbs people and turns them into cynics. About ten minutes later, Argeliba nudges me in the side. I stop spacing out and wince at the escort's shrill voice.

"Ladies first!" she cries out, her blue beehive-like hair bouncing up and down.

She prances over to the glass bowl and her left hand dives into it, searching for the slip of paper that will seal someone's fate. Gingerly taking it out, she prances back to the microphone and unfolds it.

"Scarlet Marlowe!"

There is some shifting in the twelve year old section. A freckled girl walks out, her manner composed. Her expression seems almost…bored. No, resigned. But she is not wailing or crying, and her eyes hold a threatening gaze to them. As if daring anyone to help her onto the stage. Back straight, she comes to stand beside the escort. She coldly regards the escort's offering hand, glaring at her until the escort retracts her arm and scuffles onto the next bowl.

"I like her," Argeliba muses. "Criers are never my favorite."

I twinge to myself. I had cried.

Scarlet's reaction is no pretense. She does not shake, her bottom lip does not quiver, and even from here, I can sense she is calm. Not even an inkling of fear or anxiety contorts her face. Only a dull expression smothers her.

"I like her, too."

Better than me who was a nervous wreck when I was called. Before breaking down completely when Liam's name was called out and no one volunteered.

The escort skips over to the male Reaping bowl and takes out the slip of paper without hesitation. At the microphone, she reads out the male tribute's name. The fourteen year old section parts for him. Clearly, he is well-known among them. He walks out looking as though he is desperately trying to hold himself together but that façade is falling apart. He is about halfway to the stage, eyes desperately searching out someone who will take the rep for him. A few moments pass, a few steps nearer to the stage, and someone calls out:

"I volunteer!"

A dark-haired guy moves out from the sixteen year old section. There seems to be a slight tension to his expression as he hurriedly moves up to the stage. The reaped boy very nearly collapses in relief.

"Ooh, a volunteer! What's your name?"

"Thorin. Thorin Robiquet."

The escort beams at him and spins to face the front. Thorin stands tall and true in front of the district that analyzes him curiously, befuddled of why he did what he did. But they find nothing, and he only stands complacently as the escort beams on and on. They don't know what to look for. Behind his back, Thorin fidgets his hands, scuffing his left wrist with his right palm.

Only now do the burn marks come to my attention. Thorin halts abruptly as the escort begins to speak and lets go of his wrist.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for District Six! Scarlet Marlowe and Thorin Robiquet."

I can practically feel the sighs of relief that it is not them. Or for the eighteen year olds, they have finally escaped the ominous loom of the Hunger Games.

The two turn and shake hands before the Peacekeepers come in and escort them to the Justice Building.

"Scarlet is mine," Argeliba announces as she watches them pass us.

Up close, Thorin is a little frazzled. But it does not seem directed towards volunteering as he keeps looking behind him at someone.

"I'll take Thorin then," I reply once they disappear behind the doors of the Justice Building.

* * *

**Arly Paci, Victor of the Seventeenth Hunger Games  
****District Nine**

* * *

"Arly?"

The first-aid kit falls to the ground in a clatter as I frantically try to stuff the gauze and antiseptic back into it. Gasping, I throw myself against the bathroom door. The lock broke a few weeks ago. I haven't found the will in me to get a locksmith to fix it.

"Arly, come out, please," Cassian pleads from behind the door.

It is pathetic.

My Hunger Games finished years ago but I have not changed one bit from when I came out. My family tells me to seek help but I refuse time and time again. Turning my back to the door, I slump against it and look at my bleeding wrist, at the multiple scars that line it. I bury my face in my hands. A failure.

I should be ashamed.

I am ashamed.

"Arly-"

"What are you doing here, Cassian?" I interrupt.

"I wanted to see you before the Reaping."

He frequently comes over just to talk to me. My parents died six years ago and my sister has long given up on me. Orson, District Nine's other Victor, does not bother with the two of us. We're weak in his eyes apparently. Needless to say, I do not bother talking to him. But he is kind at times. Times like today. We all share the same burden of being a Victor and needing to put up that glorious front after all.

I stare at my wrist.

But sometimes, I cannot quite take it anymore.

"Arly!"

The door moves behind me and instinctively, I move away. Cassian comes barreling in and wordlessly, he bends and starts taking the gauze and antiseptic to dab up the cuts. He never says anything about it but I know he worries.

"I'll be fine," I try to assure him.

"You always say that," his voice breaks.

Shaking my head, I try to answer him, but the words catch in my throat. My throat tightens and a lump forms in it. Bowing my head, the tears start escaping and I break down.

I was never meant to survive my Hunger Games.

"How long 'til the Reaping?" I ask through my tears, trying to find something to focus on.

"Two hours."

Two hours later, I am seated on the stage and staring out at the faceless crowd before me. The palpable tension in the air starts getting to me and I avert my gaze. The yellow stalks of grain and wheat wave gently in the breeze a distance away. I always liked going there before I was reaped. When I came back, the fields provided little comfort. The pale blue bedroom seemed better though it never did help.

"Arly, Cassian," Orson greets once he reaches us.

"Hello," I answer.

Smiling is too much of an effort right now. And he knows how I feel towards him.

"Hi," Cassian replies softly.

"Good luck with mentoring," he tells us.

"Thanks."

And the conversation ends there. We rarely talk much though a sense of camaraderie binds us at times like this. I relax against the back of my seat and patiently wait for the Reaping to start. Part of me dreads going to the Capitol again. It is not so much the thought of the cameras though that is one part of it, but I am reluctant to leave my home.

I have to do what has to be done though.

Fifteen minutes later and one screeching feedback from the microphone later, Amar walks up the stage. Our escort is as uppity as always and his hooked nose hardly helps with his snobbish disposition. It does not take long to arrive to the main event that everyone has been waiting for.

He wastes no time in taking out a slip of paper from the female bowl.

"Kiefer Callistus."

The pen for the seventeen year olds part, presenting a straight path to the aisle for her. No one seems particularly remorseful or sad over her being chosen.

And despite the circumstances, neither does she. The young woman walks out and I observe her carefully. Cassian and I have already decided beforehand that I will take the female. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line, hands balled up into fists, but her fierce expression does not waver as she walks up to the stage. It looks to me that she is trying to hold her tears in though.

But it's good.

Better than crying at the very least.

"Kristopher Runes."

And, like how everyone parted for Kiefer, the boys do the same for Kristopher. Except they give him a wider berth. He strolls out of his pen, lips tugged up into a smile. He is completely unaffected by the fact that he has been reaped for the Hunger Games.

Amar merely sniffs once Kristopher is beside him. Taking the microphone, it squeals again and I wince.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he drawls, "your tributes for District Nine!"

There is no raucous applause. Just a very light and polite one if only because of the cameras. Tossing his extravagantly long purple hair, Amar makes haste away from the two tributes.

"Good luck," Orson says as we stand. He off-handedly dusts his hands on his pants and cocks his head to the side. I try not to notice the superiority gleaming in his eyes.

"Thank you."

He inclines his head once more and walks away. Cassian and I share a look and I offer him a weak smile.

"I suppose this is the part where we go back," I say loosely, sighing as my hands subconsciously wrap around the uncouth strands of hair around my shoulders.

"Yeah," he murmurs, and I know without seeing that his eyes are trained on me worriedly. Every move has become a potential to turn the lost cause to a dead one. Every step I take is one step closer to my grave in his eyes. Any sudden movements, and I'll be gone for good.

I don't have the heart to tell him that I'm already gone.

* * *

**Avella Ratier, Capitol Mentor  
District Eleven**

* * *

They called them unsalvageable.

In truth, that's all anyone would see from the outside. Unruliness runs through this district like wildfire, and poverty is commonplace. Crime is more prevalent than the absence of it. Nothing in this district runs as it should. Far too many problems plague this district for anyone to fix, and anyone who has tried has failed, quickly and painfully. It's pitiful, but it's what's here.

It's a good thing I want nothing to do with that. I have no desire to interact with any of them, save the two tributes who will represent not only this district, but me.

_Us, _I correct internally. Winona coolly gazes into the crowd of children, looking through the rows of potential tributes with an analytical glare. One mentor hadn't been enough to uphold this mess, as the Capitol realized after the first suicide. I do my best to look at her and not through her, but these days, it's hard not to. With all the assistant mentors that come and go, it's hard not to see them as a temporary secretary rather than an equal.

But something tells me she'll be here for a while. Winona's eyes flicker from one impoverished child to another, and she does nothing but blandly sigh as she turns to me. "Which one would you like?" she says neutrally, as if she was regarding an animal, not a person. It's probably better to think like that, anyway.

"Whichever you don't," I answer. "Does it matter in the end? We're on the same team here. As soon as one wins, we're out of this dump."

Winona considers this for a moment and shrugs. "Do we mentor them together, then?"

"That's not a decision for us to make," I state, and Winona nods behind me. Good. The last mentor I tried to work with seemed to have disagreed with every word that left my mouth. At least Winona knows her place. "Let's see if they're compatible before anything else."

A familiar face wraps up his address to the people. District Eleven runs through escorts as it runs through mentors, but Natalia has been around for the past three years, one short of being around as long as I have. Eleven has had some close calls in the finales, but ultimately, we're still here.

Wallowing in the failure of these people.

It's hard not to blame them, but it's hard to do so, as well. They're born in this dirt and aren't given a chance to leave it. But neither was Twelve. Or Nine. Or Six. If you want to leave what you have, you have to get up yourself. You're not given a way out.

It always feels like the people before me are still waiting for someone to give them a helping hand. More than once families have come pleading and crying, begging for me to do everything in my power to save little Collin and poor, innocent Vera.

I can never decide if they disgust me or if I pity them.

Natalia approaches the microphone, humming in the silence that looms over us. Ever since restlessness began to stir, Peacekeepers have practically ruled the district entirely. Not a single person dares make a noise lest the hundreds of guns trained interspersed throughout the balconies locate them.

"We'll start with the girls," Natalia announces calmly, dipping her sky blue hands into the bowl. For a moment, her hands sift through the hundreds of slips before she selects one and returns to the microphone. She unfurls the folded paper without so much as blinking.

"Elora Valeyn!"

A willowy girl emerges from the seventeen-year old section, clad in a white, lace gown and a necklace of pearls around her neck. Unlike the others around her, Elora's skin is tan, but not dark, and her appearance is something out of District One.

Elora approaches the microphone with a winning smile and an airtight mask latched onto her. An outcry stops her in her tracks as an older woman – her mother, presumably – weeps. Hundreds of guns swerve to find the voice and lock in on her before a young man speaks sense into the woman.

The cameras had swerved alongside the guns towards the momentary disturbance, and in this moment, Elora's grin falters, and she hastily wipes her eyes against the sleeves of her dress. Not even Natalia besides her notices.

It's hard to see what you're not looking for.

"Do you have anything to say?" Natalia offers the microphone to Elora, who accepts it with an appreciative nod.

"I'm grateful for the opportunity to represent my district," Elora says calmly. The steadiness in her voice shocks even me. "It's no secret that we're not portrayed in the best light. I just have to disprove that."

Murmurs of disapproval flood the square, but the cocking of a gun silences that altogether.

Once absolute stillness has been restored in the square, Natalia approaches the opposite bowl with the same cheerfulness in her eyes. "Onto our boys," she chirps, once again humming as her hands seemingly argue with which slip will be chosen.

Natalia daintily grasps a slip from the top this time. "Abner Demerath!"

After the instinctive relief that betrays the faces of many, the heads in the district collectively turn in an attempt to snatch a look at whichever poor boy is destined to die now. Yet no one steps forward. A full twenty seconds of silence fill the square before a movement in the fourteen-year old section draws my attention.

A thin boy mouths to another boy of similar stature, and the latter trembles in response. Before either boy has a chance to do much of anything, the Peacekeepers decide it's high time to settle the issue for themselves, and they advance toward the two.

The first two apprehend the second boy, the shaking one. "By the reaping ordinance of Panem, you must accompany us." The boy remains still and silent, either unaware or unaccepting of the words being read to him. "Young man, I insist you follow us or we will make you."

It's only as the other Peacekeepers latch onto the first boy does the situation clear. They pull him farther and farther away from the first boy, and he struggles unintelligently. "Stop it!" he barks, limply swinging his arms and legs. "Don't hurt him, he can't hear you!"

By now, the Peacekeepers aren't listening, of course. The deaf boy has been thrown over of the Peacekeepers' shoulders like a rag doll and taken to the stage as such. At the stage, the Peacekeeper unceremoniously dumps him onto the wooden platform.

Elora rushes to his aid, pulling him up without once dropping her smile. Abner meets her eyes with a faint smile before rising with her assistance.

Natalia claps their backs. "Well, I suppose you've already shaken hands. My job here is done," she announces, promptly making her way offstage as the crowd also begins to disperse. Winona and I watch as an impenetrable block of Peacekeepers escort Abner and Elora to the Justice Building.

"I want the girl," I say as I watch Elora shake hands with the Head Peacekeeper before entering her respective room.

Winona grins. "I wanted the boy, so I guess that worked out well."

I raise an eyebrow in response. "Why would you want the handicap?"

"Some things surprise you, Avella. It's not always the strongest or the most able that come out on top," she reasons.

I don't bother arguing with her. So long as she knows her place, she can believe in whatever she wants to. The same goes for the tributes, I suppose. I don't care who they were or what they believe in. I don't care who they are at all.

My job isn't to know them. My job isn't to sympathize them.

My job is to make them win. No more, and no less.

* * *

**A/N: This is the first of three reapings, four districts per reaping. This way, we can breeze through them while still creating an idea of each tribute. A happy median.**

* * *

**Not much to say this time. The three of us would collectively love it if you reviewed (they're fun to read). Reviews don't have to be massive, but it's nice to see you care enough to leave a word or two. As Light Up The Sky is coming to a close, expect faster update speeds. **

* * *

**_Which of these eight tributes stood out the most to you?_**

* * *

**See you soon!**


	4. Choice

_"It's choice - not chance - that determines your destiny." _

* * *

**Navaeh Astley, Victor of the Thirty-Sixth Hunger Games  
****District One**

* * *

The mentors are in a good mood.

It is just an hour before the Reaping and we're having a sort of gathering, if you will. Chosen to be mentor this year for our female Career, I smile proudly at the photo of our chosen volunteer. Adelaide Marchal. She has been a rising star ever since she joined the Academy and cemented her position as the top trainee after several years.

But as much as I would like to say she is more than equipped with the skills and knowledge to win, I know how unpredictable the Games can be. No one expected me, someone who did close to nothing, to win after all. There were others to do the work for me. I had no reason to lift a finger.

"Navaeh."

I look up to see cold eyes and a thin pair of icy lips. Pasiphae.

She is different from me. She killed more than half the tributes in her Hunger Games. In spite of our differences though, we remain on good terms. I smile at her and look at the rest who are drinking. Non-alcoholic of course. As the Victors of District One, we do have a reputation to uphold on a day as important as this.

"Good luck on mentoring," she says as she sits beside me.

"Thank you! But I'm sure Adelaide won't disappoint."

We smile at each other. Looking behind her, I catch sight of Silicus who is resting on a chair. The oldest of us, he still looks younger than his actual age. He catches me looking and smiles. I return it. Favoritism is frowned upon in this district, but Silicus has always been the least grating victor. Compared to the rest, he is nurturing. Almost as though like a kindly grandfather.

Standing up, I decide to head over and mingle with the rest. An hour left before I have to get serious and get ready for my second mentorship. The first Career I mentored died and came in fifth. Though I try to comfort myself at times that her placement is not all that awful, the guilt that I could have tried harder still eats away at me. The what ifs swallow me up.

But I have a new tribute to mentor now.

I have to focus on her.

An hour later, I find myself seated on stage. The escort's theatrics have worn itself out on the second time. I pretend to pay attention. The atmosphere is alight with an excited buzz. We approach the Hunger Games with open arms for the most part. With the Career culture, except for the chosen two, none of us have to fear entering the arena.

Sometimes I wonder if things would be different if we did not have this concept of training for the Hunger Games. Most likely. We would be like the outer districts.

The escort skips over to the female Reaping bowl and plucks out the slip of paper. She does not even bother to heighten the tension knowing that there will be a volunteer. Reading out the name, the Reaped tribute shuffles forward. And true enough, a few moments later, Adelaide's voice rings out.

"I volunteer!"

She walks up to the stage perfectly poised, lips curved into a slight smile. Pride swells up in me.

"What's your name, darling?" the escort asks.

"Adelaide Marchal."

"That's a really pretty name!"

Considered a genius by the Academy's standards, she is expected to go far. I grip the hem of my blouse nervously. I hope I can deliver. It would be even better if she emerges as Victor. Looking over at Silicus, I wonder how he took his first tribute's death. I bite on my lower lip and look at the escort who has already taken the slip of paper with a male's name written on it. She calls it out and Cohen volunteers.

He walks up to the stage with a smile verging on a grin.

"Cohen Veridie," he announces.

The two district partners shake hands. Their smiles are genuine and the mood between them actually does come off as truly comfortable.

"Your tributes for the Forty-First Hunger Games, District One!" The escort declares.

The crowd bursts into rapturous applause and Cohen eagerly waves at them. Adelaide waves as well, but the cheerful, infectious energy of Cohen isn't to be seen in Adelaide. She's not a corpse, but she's not nearly as vivacious. Not nearly as riveting. Not nearly as eye-catching.

I will myself to think that a good thing.

The Peacekeepers escort them to the inside of the Justice Building and the crowd starts dispersing.

Standing up, I head over to Silicus and offer my hand to him.

"I look forward to working with you."

"Likewise." He chuckles and shakes my hand. "You don't have to be so formal."

"Nothing _has_ to happen," I respond, dusting off the ruffles of my dress. "But they do. I'd like to be in control of what has to happen to me."

* * *

**Celesto Rollins, Victor of the Twenty-Ninth Hunger Games  
District Three**

* * *

They don't clap this year.

Not that I'm complaining, but it's become tradition for me to ignore the muted applause of the people as I take my seat on the podium every year. Out of respect, gratitude, pity, or reverence, I never figured out, but it's gone now. The square doesn't acknowledge my presence with sound.

But there is a sight to see. Beady eyes of every color are locked onto me as I laxly sit on my designated chair on the podium. Whatever purposed them to thank me before has most definitely vanquished now. Many of their eyes adorn little but indifference. A select few still meet my eyes with a glint of kindness in their hearts.

And the others. The others regard me with a coldness that I suppose I've earned. They accuse me of doing what I've done, and I make no move to denounce that. There's no point in putting off what's bound to punish me anyway.

They accuse me of stealing their children away. Their anger is misplaced, but they couldn't care less. Frankly, I couldn't, either. And no matter how skewed their logic is won't affect the silent hatred that the eyes of parents speak here and now.

I brush off the glares as the ceremony begins. Better they blame me than someone who will do more than ignore their hatred. At least this way, no additional punishment will be thrown upon us. The Games are more than enough to ruin lives and tear a community apart.

Anything else will only tear more and more into nothing but shreds. Eleven is a prime example. Not even family bonds can always overwhelm the need to stay alive. The need to eat. The need to breathe. The need to live. Everything is up in the air when survival is part of the game.

The mayor stares at me peculiarly when I laugh abruptly during the escort's speech. Sounds a lot like another game.

Said escort shrills into the microphone as her electrifying presentation finally comes to a close. The monitors surrounding the square blacken quickly around us all, and the escort applauds. To my genuine surprise, she's not the only one clapping. Not nearly the only one. People and reapable teenagers alike clap alongside her. Dully, but nevertheless, they clap.

I frown as the clapping ends and the escort waltzes over to the girls' bowl, squealing all the way. When did Three become a lapdog?

"My ladies out there will be first!" she exclaims. She wastes no time in delaying the process, hurriedly snatching up the top slip and returning to centre-stage. "Letricia Kode!"

Withholding the roll of the eyes that begs to be shown, I watch as Letricia breaks into sobs. Her age's section awkwardly moves to avoid her path, but not one person reaches out to comfort the weeping girl. No one acknowledges it. Several have to look away to keep themselves at arm's length, but after all is said and done, Letricia has no one supporting her.

At least some things haven't changed.

Letricia rubs her red summer dress against her eye, leaving a tear stain on the dampened fabric. "Don't cry, dearest, we're on a time frame here," the escort whispers away from the microphone, gently guiding Letricia from behind. She stumbles as she makes her way to the stage.

The escort clears her throat into the microphone, bathing in the attention of the district once more. "Letricia, do you have anything to say?"

The sniveling girl begins to shake her head, but the escort thrusts the microphone to her before she can properly answer. "I… I didn't do anything." She averts her eyes, swallowing a sob weakly in her throat. "Why me? I didn't do anything," she whispers, hiccupping as the last of her tears slips off her cheek.

Unlike me, the escort makes no attempt of masking her distaste. "I'm sure you didn't," she mumbles lowly before making her way over to the boys' bowl.

"Theon Carter!"

Once again, not a single soul makes an attempt of helping the boy up the stage, but it's not needed this time. Theon raises an eyebrow as his name is called, but otherwise, isn't outwardly affected. After a moment's inquiry, the boy shrugs and paves his own path to the stage, ignoring the pointed glares he gets as he shoves a passerby or two on the way.

Once he's there, he grabs the microphone before the escort offers it to him. Based on her relieved smile, it doesn't really look like she cares all that much. "I just want to say this: don't miss me too much. I'll be back soon."

The escort doesn't hesitate to take her microphone back. "Cocky, are we now?"

"It's not cocky if you have something to back it up," reasons Theon as he takes his respective spot onstage. The woman motions for the two of them to shake hands, and Theon makes no delay in brusquely grasping Letricia's hand and tugging it before departing. Letricia shrinks away to his coldness.

I sigh. There goes any chance of them being allies.

It's none of my business, truly, but it's always a bit easier to work with two of them if they're just that – two, and not two ones. But just from watching them walk towards the Justice Building – from Theon's swagger to Letricia's shyness – it's blatantly obvious that they'll be working separately.

Yet their differences don't bother me. It'll cause issues for sure, but the more different they are, the better their chances. If both of them were brazen and impulsive, I'd have two dead corpses to come home with. If both were hesitant and meek, the same would be true.

This way, one lives and one dies.

Now just the matter of which.

* * *

**Quinn Desential, Victor of the Twenty-First Hunger Games  
District Eight**

* * *

"Quinn, are you ready yet?" Faulkner's voices bares touches of worry around it's edges. It's almost like he thinks we won't get to the Reaping on time. Every year's the same, hurry up or they're going to start without us.

I understand why he does it, though. Despite how much he doesn't want to admit, a part of Faulkner will always be that small thirteen year old boy who was destined to be a bloodbath, another blank space on the list of those lost to the Games' clutches. Sure, he proved them wrong in the end. Even killed his district partner, Vera, who had been chosen as the one to bare all of the District's hope for another victor. The only person who believed that Faulkner would come out alive was him.

To this day, I'm grateful that it turned out that was all he needed.

"I'll be there in a minute Faulkner so please, for pity's sake, stop asking," I reply, sounding oddly like a mother scolding their children, fixing my hair so it's reasonably presentable. Unlike Polio, who I imagine is about two bottles deep into the alcohol haze at this point, I need to make sure I look strong. Not as some front, but to show that the Games didn't break me like they had so many others.

The face of Jon Kohl surfaces in my mind although I quickly swat it away. I need to focus on the now. In a couple of hours, I will be on another train back to the Capitol with all new tributes to mentor. Tributes, who if everything goes right, will be the ones telling me to hurry up next year.

Standing up from the seat at my vanity, I stroll over to the door and pull it open to reveal Faulkner in the hallway of my home. He wastes no time in racing down the stairs because he must still need to persuade the bottle out of Polio's hand. Soon enough, the familiar swearing that makes up most of Polio's vocabulary begins to bounce off the walls as I make my way down to join them.

"Polio, just give me the bottle. We need to leave now," Faulkner asks, trying to be polite as he can be under the circumstances.

Polio responds with something along the lines of "Fuck you." before taking another large swig.

The youngest victor made a move to try again but stopped when I move past him. Within a few strides, I'm beside Polio, tearing the bottle out of his hand. He goes to swear at me, to call me a bitch or a whore or some other word I've heard a thousand other times when he was drunk. I cut him off.

"This is all we ask you to do. Go to the Reaping, sit for ten minutes and then go back to the village so you can drink away what you've done. I'm sure Faulkner would love a year off from journeying to the Capitol, if you would rather not."

Twenty minutes later, we're all sitting together on the stage as Mayor Pollock finishes her speech. The sound of the forced applause echoes throughout the area, it managing to make the uncomfortable air even more unbearable.

Our escort, Larissa, either doesn't notice or doesn't care as she walks up to the girl's bowl, confidently and quickly. She never likes to waste time. She told me one year she despises coming here year after year. Safe to say, she wasn't happy when I told her that she better get used to it.

Her hand rummages around in the bowl for a few seconds before picking a slip out from the center. Needless to say, Larissa opens it with haste.

"Tarryn Cheverly."

A few seconds pass and the peacekeepers being to look at each other, nevertheless, a girl who must be Tarryn emerges from the sixteen year old section. She keeps her head down as she stalks up to the stage, her hands remaining stubbornly tightened into fists for the entire time. Even when Tarryn has taken her place on the stage and raised her head, her fists remain clenched. Her eyes may be teary, however, they are not falling and they are not important right now.

Those fists show that she has fight inside of her. Me and Faulkner didn't have much to our names when we were tributes. One of the few things we did have was fight and look where that has brought us.

Larissa blinks impassively at Tarryn. Then she moves to the boy's bowl and repeats practically the exact same thing she done for the girl's bowl. The slip is in her hand before you could blink and it is opened before your eyes are opened.

"Ren Ardaine."

This time, the chosen's section doesn't wait for the tribute to make its way as it, it being the seventeen year old section, parts almost immediately, revealing a dark haired boy. I wonder for a moment if he is going to be one of those ones that freezes and doesn't react to anything. He proves me wrong though as he puts on this odd sly grin that makes it seem like he planned this. Ren doesn't remove it by the time he reaches the stage. He stands next to Tarryn as Larissa unethusanticly announces the ending of yet another reaping.

Polio leaves without saying a word, only a barely audible mumble that not even I could understand. I turn back to the two tributes who are about to be taken off to the Justice Building when Ren leans down to Tarryn's ear. Whatever he whispered to her, it didn't take long. That grin is back on his face when his head surfaces, he even gives a Tarryn a wink which leaves her oddly perplexed.

"Who do you want?" Faulkner questions. I think about it for a moment.

"I'll take Ren," I answer. "It'll be easier for you to handle Tarryn. She's got determination, and you work well with determination."

Faulkner says nothing in response. We walk together to the Justice Building in silence, just like we had done every year since he had won.

No one could have predicted that two thirteen year olds would win, never mind from the same District. That is what we do though. We beat the odds in order to gain victory, and we came out better for it.

All you need is determination to succeed in the Games. If you don't possess that, you are destined to become yet another blank space.

* * *

**Corbin Pentier, Victor of the Thirty-Fifth Hunger Games  
District Twelve**

* * *

"This'll be the year."

Holland turns to me with glossed over eyes. Her lips quirk disapprovingly as she readjusts her body in her chair. "It could be," she deadpans, picking at her nails dully. "It always _could _be."

"But it _will _be," I urge, and Holland only sighs to herself. "If we don't have any hope for them, who can we expect the tributes to have hope?"

"Their lives are on the line," she retorts, no longer monotone in voice. Her expression flashes with agitation as she continues. "If they can't hold out hope for themselves, they don't deserve to make it out of the arena in the first place."

Not one to be beaten, I turn to face Holland directly. "You're saying that you never had a moment of weakness in the arena, in the Capitol – at the Reaping. Not one stroke of helplessness, not one second of fear?"

"It's not about me anymore. Nor is it about you." She hesitates, before adding, "The Games change. There is no sort of tribute that does consistently better. Daring helps you one year. Intelligent helps you another."

"And this year, it might be cowardice that leads a tribute from Twelve to victory," I reply smugly.

"Unlikely."

"Unlikely," I agree, "but very much possible."

She runs a wrinkly hand through her graying hair. Despite being younger than mom, Holland could pass as my grandma. The Victor Effect, they call it. "Anything is fair game for the Games. Just because something is possible doesn't mean it's probable. They could make the arena a cake and no one would bat an eye.

"If you're saying that the arena will be a cake before Twelve wins again, I think we should consider putting you in an asylum."

Holland glares, but her eyes twinkle in amusement. She'd never say it aloud, but she's glad I'm here. For one, she's finally not alone in this mentoring business, and two… I think she's happy that she finally brought someone home. Thirty or so years passed, and she had nothing to show for it. And now, I'm here and suddenly, her work isn't for naught anymore.

The thought makes me shudder. Will I have to wait thirty years for my work to pay off?

"You're missing the point," she mutters, throwing a sloppy shove my direction.

"You're not providing a point."

She opens her mouth to spit back, but both of our attentions are stolen away from our banter to the stage as the escort bids hello to the district. Niko Vallant is just the newest face for Twelve, surely to be replaced within the next year or so. Twelve is pit-stop for the escorts to stop by at and move on from as their career starts.

It shouldn't bother me, but it does.

I do my best to contain the annoyance as the mayor finishes his speech and hands the microphone to the twat. "Thank you, Ms. Latell," the purplish man says, clasping hands with the now elderly mayor of Twelve as he accepts the microphone from her hands. He pauses until the low rumble of the crowd dies down entirely before he speaks. "District Twelve, it is an honor to serve you," he proclaims, bowing, then grinning like a lunatic.

"I'm not going to waste your time," he begins, "but this is no waste. All the way from the Capitol, we have a presentation from our President herself!"

A collective sigh is breathed from the crowd as the overly dramatized production stirs on the screens around the square. The propaganda is laced with sound effects that jolt the dozing people from their naps, but otherwise, it doesn't serve much of a purpose. Even Niko fights a yawn halfway through.

Niko hastily moves for the microphone as soon as the presentation dies down. "Wasn't that riveting?" A stray voice responds with a resounding 'No', but the Peacekeepers are too busy laughing to be bothered to deal with the situation. Niko purses his lips.

"Our ladies, first!"

He slips his hand into the girls' bowl and allows his hand to swim around in the countless names before finally selecting the fated tribute. He clears his throat.

"Aline Carron!"

The front section of the girls open up to reveal a thin girl with dark brown hair, tied into a bun behind her head. She stumbles at first, and her entire body is visibly shaking, but by the time she's hit the stage, there's more control. She's not completely reined in the tremor in her hands, but Aline hasn't let one tear slip off her face. Not once does she cry out, not even as the Peacekeepers usher her forcefully to the stage once they decide she's not moving fast enough.

Not yet.

"Do you have anything to say, Aline?"

Aline's lips quirk into an ugly frown before she straightens it out entirely. "Not particularly."

I raise an eyebrow. "They always say something. Bitter, happy, even indifferent – everyone has something to say."

The corner of Holland's lip twitches upward. "Maybe she has the good sense to not say it."

"The Capitol won't like her. Or remember her."

Holland smiles now, not bothering to suppress it like she usually does. "But the Gamemakers will."

Niko wastes no time in announcing the obvious. His hand plays up the same idea as it did with the girls; he takes his good old time sifting through names, deciding which unlucky boy will have the great fortune of being selected to die.

A slip from the very bottom appeases him. "Duke Holloway!"

Once again, the eighteen-year old section shuffles to the sides of the pen as Duke squirms out. The silence that ruled the square is broken as a woman from the outskirts screams out. This time, Peacekeepers do move to apprehend her, but they don't do any physical damage to her. A female Peacekeeper simply collects her in her arms and walks off.

But Duke has no such fear coming from him. Act or not, Duke hops up to the stage with a steady grin and a steadier bounce in his step. Niko picks up on his jubilance. "Duke, my man, how's it hanging?"

Duke shrugs, still clinging to the grin that's plastered onto his face. "It's alright. Nothing too big, I guess."

Niko plays up their banter for what it's worth before drawing it to a close. "District Twelve, your tributes, Aline Carron and Duke Holloway!"

He motions for them to shake hands, and Duke pistons his hand upwards to Aline. The latter considers his hand with a cold glare before shaking it briefly and stalking off to her awaiting pack of Peacekeepers.

"I want the girl," Holland murmurs, watching the two of them make their way to their final goodbyes.

"Who said you get to pick first?"

She sneers at me. "Please, if it weren't for me, you'd be a corpse. I get first pick. Always."

"That hardly seems fair," I mutter playfully, slapping on a pout for good measure.

Holland laughs. "Fair? You of all people should know better."

* * *

**A/N: Second batch of tributes has come and gone. Last batch is coming up soon. After that, tribute POVs will start with the Train Rides.**

* * *

**We'd love to hear from you. Reviews don't have to be massive; we just want to know you're there. A simple note of approval or disapproval would be great.**

* * *

_**Which tributes were your favorite? Least favorite?**_

* * *

**See you soon!**


	5. Beyond Logic

_"Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic." _

* * *

**Marisa Carlisle, Victor of the Thirty-Eighth Hunger Games  
District Four**

* * *

The cameras never stopped.

From the moment she left the arena until today, three years after, the Capitol hadn't hinted at finally getting their heads out of her ass. Their bloodlust was kept at bay with the not-so personal lives of their victims. But Marisa had long learned to tolerate her own torment. They followed her, and she glared back. It was how things worked.

But it wasn't herself that she was worried about. Marisa was a big a girl. She didn't need to be babied; she could take the paparazzi. Mags, however, couldn't. Her fellow victor tripped up and fell down a slippery slope, hitting every bump along the way.

The cameras sure didn't help her fragile condition.

So as Marisa firmly made her way up the stage, met with applause from the audience and flashing lights from the forsaken cameras, she hoped with all her heart that Mags would be there. Sober. Clean. Respectable. The woman the district renowned as their Victor, their gateway to becoming a trained district. But all she was met with was Talise's smirk and an empty chair.

Some things never changed.

Marisa spoke behind a painfully forced smile while she took her seat beside Talise. "Where is she?"

Talise laughed aloud, toying with her painted nails with vigor. "Do you truly think I know? Or care, for that matter?"

Marisa shot a sour glance at her counterpart. "That woman saved you from the arena."

"In another life, maybe. _That_ woman, the one who could get up on her own, she saved me. Not the pathetic excuse of a human that you're always tending to," Talise muttered, scowling.

"You don't mean that," Marisa whispered back. "She's lost people. Her sister. Her son. She's suffering.

Talise, however, was far past whispering. "And you think she's the only one suffering? She's showered in riches, praise; she has it all! People are dying of starvation and she has the nerve to cry in her mansion!" Talise's eyes glimmered with a flash of pain before her indifferent, flippant mask returned.

"A mansion that she lives in, alone," Marisa returned calmly. Her eyes flickered to the cameras, which were thankfully not trained on the two bickering victors. "This is for another time, Talise."

"Isn't it always?" Talise laughed bitterly, shaking her head as she straightened the ruffles of her summer dress.

Marisa opened her mouth to respond, but wisely chose to close it. She had overstepped the line with Talise. Her flippancy was her mask, her coping mechanism, and Marisa had managed to get her off it in less than two minutes. Marisa wasn't one for masks or facades; hiding wasn't her strong suit. And because of that, she never did see what people hid underneath theirs until she shattered it.

A habit of hers, so to speak.

A light cough into the microphone silenced the rowdy crowd. Marisa smiled with something akin to pride. Obedience was drilled into her trainees to the point of memorization. They would sooner forget their own names than act against an order. Talise rolled her eyes beside her, but Marisa paid it no mind. The Academy was her child, reborn and redesigned after her victory.

This was her coping mechanism.

"District Four, greetings from the Capitol!" the new escort cheered, raising a purplish hand in revel. The district applauded and whistled back, putting a smile on the young woman's very purple face. The Treaty of Treason was recited in a chirpy voice that somehow made the dreary speech tolerable.

As the escort enunciated the last syllable, her bored expression quickly returned to one of her normal cheerfulness. "And now, let us meet our tributes!"

Marisa twitched in her chair slightly. Decisions were made just a week ago of who showed the most promise, and there was more than a little unappreciative reactions to her choices. She only hoped her trainees wouldn't lose their heads over this.

"For our boys, Parry Mathilde!"

A young boy from the front had just enough time to set his first foot into the aisle before a calm voice echoed through the square: "I volunteer!"

The eyes of the district flocked to the back of the roped section as the crowd parted for a boy with dirty blonde hair and an indifferent expression. Marisa breathed a sigh of relief as Vice Chevalier made his way to the stage and announced his name for the crowd. One down, one to go.

Vice answered any and all of the escort's questions – no matter incessant they were – with an unwavering expression and the calm that drove Marisa to side with him above all else. She didn't need muscle or brilliance. Marisa only wanted obedience and order, and Vice more than met that requirement.

The escort let out an exasperated sigh as her final question yet again fell flat with Vice. "Why so glum, Mr. Chevalier?"

The corner of Vice's lips tilted upwards before straightening again as he cleared his throat. "Not glum, Ms. Vartin. Just focused on what's to come, that's all."

Within moments of Vice's selection, the escort pranced to the second bowl, filled to the brim with slips. The tesserae system didn't exactly function as planned with the introduction of training. Marisa let herself smile slightly. Just another benefit of the Academy: screwing the Capitol over.

The escort yanked a sole slip from the bowl and recited the printed name into her microphone. "And for our girls, Ivanna Paralian!"

How convenient. Marisa raised an eyebrow in amusement as the younger Paralian sister stepped into the aisle before a firm voice cried from the back: "I volunteer!"

Aelia Paralian irritably brushed away a Peacekeeper as he made his way to intercept her. The two sisters made brief eye contact before they passed one another and Aelia ascended to the stage. The escort jubilantly interviewed her on the spot as soon as Aelia's name left her mouth.

"Oh, dear, was that your sister?"

Aelia pursed her lips. "Gee, what gave it away?"

The escort laughed sharply. "Oh, how I love the cheeky ones!" Her humor died down slightly. "Did you volunteer for your sister, my dear?"

Aelia's eyes hardened with resolve. "Actually, no. I volunteered just for myself."

The escort cocked her head to the right. "And what do you hope to accomplish by doing so?"

For the first time on the stage, Aelia hesitated. A flash of something that didn't look to be her usual, conniving self appeared in her eyes. Aelia shook her head, mumbling back into the microphone something that Marisa didn't bother to listen to.

Because Marisa knew what that emotion in Aelia's eyes reminded her of. She remembered who she saw that, who she remembered that from.

Herself.

* * *

**Krynne Harper, Victor of the Twenty-Third Hunger Games  
District Five**

* * *

It was dying.

The rain that fell in sheets onto the already grey town square only highlighted what had been building for years. The hope that Krynne felt, that Mirella felt, that the entire district felt, if only for a moment amidst the constant dread that they lived in, it was on its last legs. The Academy that stood proud and true in the center of the city only served as a cruel reminder of their failure.

Of her failure.

Mirella read her like a book as she walked up the stage and took a seat beside her. The audience didn't find the energy to applaud or even acknowledge their Victor. Not that Krynne blamed them. She would've done the exact same.

"Stop beating yourself up," Mirella reassured softly. The faint notes of doubt in her own voice were painfully obvious to Krynne. To anyone else, Mirella would appear firm and doubtless, but the two had built the Training Center together. They had lived through thick and thin with the other to kick them in the side when they were acting foolish.

Krynne knew Mirella better than Mirella knew herself. No white lie was going to get past her, and Mirella knew that. But there was no harm in trying. The younger Victor didn't bother pointing out the obvious; the unmoved scowl on her face said it all.

"Even the experienced Career districts face lulls," Mirella reasoned.

Krynne shook her head. "This isn't a lull. This is a failure. It's been seven years, Mirella, and we haven't gotten _close _to bringing someone home." Her own calloused hands rubbed against her face. "We're killing off the few trainees that come to us without so much as getting them to the finale."

"Perhaps," Mirella conceded, "but we're giving them their best chance. We can't go in there and fight for them. The trainees that we had at first were desperate. No normal person would sign up to volunteer their life away unless there was a reason – poverty, illness, depression. These trainees aren't what we're looking for."

"And what if we never find it?" Krynne returned, feeling the pent-up anxiety and frustration build up in her. "What if all we ever find are trainees that don't meet the Games' standards? Do we tell their family that they just weren't good enough? That they put their faith in the wrong people?"

Mirella placed a hand on Krynne's shoulder. "All it takes is one. One victory, and we have all the proof we need. Can't you see, Krynne? Maybe we're not pushing them all the way to the finale, but we're pushing them somewhere. They're out of the bloodbath, most of them. It's a start."

"And until one finishes, all we'll have are false starts."

Mirella's latest excuse was cut short as District Five's escort – Darren Elricks – approached the microphone and took his place besides the first bowl. Whatever minimal discussions throughout the crowd died down within a moment or two.

Receiving a signal from a cameraman, Darren listed off the Victors, quickly followed by the Treaty of Treason. Through it all, the people were impassive. Unaffected. The people of Five never cared for glamor or show. Krynne could relate with them on that, at least.

Better than nothing.

Without making much of a fuss at all, Darren made his way to the girls' bowl and plucked the nearest slip off the top. "Saviana Larack!"

The crowd shifted slightly for a girl of seventeen or eighteen to unsteadily shuffle towards the stage. Her fiery red hair hardly matched the tears that already stained her cheeks or the trembling hands that fumbled around each other for comfort that would never come.

_Stop it, _Krynne chastised herself. From the hair to the nerves that clearly ate at the young girl's head, she matched this girl to a tee. And she found the nerve to criticize her. _Because she's not good enough. _Krynne hadn't been, either, but she found her footing. She got lucky.

And apparently, she was the only tribute from Five to do so.

Just as Saviana took the last step up the stage, a scuffle broke out in the crowd. A young girl with tousled, blonde hair made her way to the center before shouting in a surprisingly powerful voice: "I volunteer!"

Krynne failed to fight off the smile that made its presence known on her face. She chose not to meet Mirella's 'I-told-you-so' expression that was surely smothering her annoying face; instead, she watched as the girl approached the stage with a tenacity that was hard not to admire. Saviana hugged the girl as they crossed paths with one another, but the latter only brushed her off.

And to top it all off, Krynne recognized her. That spunk, that determination; it was unmistakable. She was a trainee of hers. "Metris Plaquerd," she answered curtly after Darren plainly asked her for her name. Metris turned to the crowd with a hard stare, and the crowd glared right back. "Don't look so happy. I only just saved a life."

Darren took that as a cue to quickly push things along, ushering Metris into her designated spot onstage before quickly moving to the boys' bowl. The hurriedness leaves his actions here as the threat of Metris denouncing the district had simmered down some.

As usual, Darren wasted no time in getting his job done. A thin slip from the top appeased him. "Bellamy Glover!"

A quiet pause loomed over the district for a moment before an older boy with meticulously placed brown hair and tattered clothing pushed through the crowd. For a moment, Krynne mistook him for a volunteer. Another step in the right direction. But as Bellamy took his place beside Metris with only a nod to Darren, it became blatantly obvious that he was, in fact, not one of hers.

It didn't bother her. Not too much. Bellamy certainly was no Saviana. He was tall, toned, and intimidating with little emotion seeping through the mask of glares and indifference. Darren inquired a thin question towards the boy – part of the job, Krynne supposed – and Bellamy only glowered in response.

"I suppose you want the girl," Mirella said, a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

Krynne hesitated, but immediately relented. "Yeah, I'll take her." Even if Metris had previous training, Bellamy was easily the bigger competitor. At least from here. But Krynne wanted to send a message. She wanted the District to believe in her. Believe in the Academy. For that to happen, Metris had to win.

And Bellamy had to die.

* * *

**Lambert Carter, Victor of the Twenty-Sixth Hunger Games  
****District Seven**

* * *

Some things never changed.

Like how Iona still trembled day after day, a cheerful smile as her disguise. Or how Adam's gaze was as piercing as ever. And Wava as illusory as she always had been. They gathered here together every year for the Reaping acting as though they could at last get a tribute who would make it. Who would come back as Victor.

But it was such a farce.

And they all knew it.

The district had to keep on believing their child could come back though, and it was up to them as Victors to help with that belief.

Lambert chuckled to himself.

Everyone knew how much of a lie it was. But sometimes, delusions were much better, right?

He watched Wava converse with the mayor's son, her touches light and fleeting. The mayor's son seemed rather enthused by those touches though, and Lambert looked away to spare himself the sight of their flirting.

Iona stood a slight distance away with Adam. They chatted quietly. And he, alone, stared out at the vast space before him. He could see the forests in the distance, the evergreen a stark contrast against the dullness of the buildings.

"I don't know if I can do this."

He was fifteen. So terribly unsure and uncertain of his own power.

"Believe in yourself. You can."

He was thirty. So terribly sure and certain of his own power.

But it was not enough to bring back even one tribute for the last fifteen years. Sure, he might not have been mentoring every year but each time he did, each failure, it remained with him.

Even he clung onto that tiny spark of hope. And hoped it would blossom into something more, and materialize as reality.

He could still hope.

"You look deep in thought," someone called out to him.

"Wava," he replied mirthlessly. "Weren't you more interested in flirting with Connor?"

She tossed her blonde hair back and laughed. Had he been any less tense, he would have laughed along. It was undeniably infectious. As it was, he cracked a small smile.

"I suppose I can assume how that turned out, then."

All he got in response was a coy smile.

"You should smile more," she added. "It fits you."

"You're not trying to flirt with me, are you, Wava?"

The voices from the other two mentors grew ever louder behind them.

"You should know what to expect, Lambert." Wava's dark brown eyes glittered with something unreadable. "We've been mentoring with each other for quite the number of years already after all."

Some things never changed.

Some people never changed.

"Wava, Lambert," Iona gently called out from behind them. "The Reaping will start soon – we should head out."

There was a chorus of assent and they headed to the stage together.

The beginning of the Reaping was the usual. Before, when he sat on stage, the gazes trained on him used to unnerve him but he had since grown accustomed to it. He watched the district's escort walk up to the microphone, teetering on her heels. Juria had been Seven's escort for a number of years already, and she seemed to be getting more and more disgruntled with her job as the years passed.

She tapped once, twice, on the microphone. The squealing feedback made Lambert cringe. From the peripheral of his vision, he noticed Iona freeze up, and Adam's hand going to hers to give it a comforting squeeze.

"Tributes," she drawled. Her derisive tone irked Lambert. They were only livestock in the eyes of the Capitol. "Welcome to the Reaping of the 41st Hunger Games."

Cutting right to the chase as she always had for the past six years, Juria headed for the girls' reaping bowl and took out a slip of paper without much fuss.

"Maisyn Alvera," she read into the microphone.

A few seconds passed before said girl emerged from her pen. She strode up confidently to the stage, lips curled into a ferocious smile. The escort called the male tribute up next.

"Halvard Asbjorn."

The first thing Lambert took note of when he stepped out was how bulky his build was. Physical strength – that was a good thing. But how much of an advantage could it be against the trained Careers?

"I like this year's pair," Wava remarked.

Lambert observed Halvard, noticed how he did not once waver in front of the cameras, confidence quietly oozing out from him. He and Maisyn shook hands. The escort announced them once more, then the Peacekeepers came to take them away to the Justice Building.

"I do too. I'll take the girl."

Wava laughed and withheld her snide comment.

"Then the boy is all mine."

Boys and girls, huh?

They would become adults by the time they entered the Hunger Games. This world had a way of making its people grow up quickly.

* * *

**Brit Carlowe, Victor of the Twenty-Four Hunger Games  
District Ten**

* * *

Brit arrived at the stage at what was probably the last possible moment. Just before the cameras turned on in order to broadcast the Reaping since, despite what people say otherwise, the Reapings only last ten or so minutes and that was at a push. There was no point in arriving early. Not for him anyway. Brit would have to wait and while he didn't have any problem waiting, it was a courtesy he only gives to things that deserve it, and under no circumstances did the Reapings deserve any sort of politeness.

It was one of the few things that him and Katari truly agreed on. It sounded odd to anyone that knew the only female victor from District Ten - the only that was still alive and didn't commit suicide that is - since Katari was well-known to be a very agreeable person. Ever since she arrived back from her Games, Katari had made it her duty to avoid conflict. Her interactions held this constant feel of false agreement. She parroted the opinions of her peers, not because it was what she believed but because her belief lied solely in letting those around her live an unchallenged existence, one which would clearly be damaged by her showing even the slightest bit of backbone.

It was always so obvious to Brit. Even as a tribute, he couldn't fail to notice that Katari's lack of proper suggestions of what to do. Of how to conduct themselves in training or in the interviews. The arena didn't get any sort of guidelines either. Katari just agreed with what the tributes wanted to do. She nodded her head and say, "That's a good idea. You should probably do that.". Maybe it was because she had mentored both tributes that she couldn't give any definite choices.

Sure, at this point, Daisy was still alive. Nevertheless, she wasn't there, not really anyway. Katari told him later on that she hadn't been here for a long time. For fleeting moments since then, Brit had wondered if Daisy had actually left the arena or if she had just been frozen in this permanent state of death that many had mistaken as living. To be honest, the only thing that truly made Brit wonder was why it took her so long to fall off the edge.

All any of this had done was reaffirm to Brit about his intelligence. His prediction of Daisy's suicide and his accurate profile of Katari were great boasts to his ego. In fact, it was only when he arrived back in District Ten and went to visit his new home in the victor's village did he realize that perhaps that was the point of Katari's attitude. She made the tributes more confident in themselves by reassuring them about their decisions. She didn't question them or doubt them. She gave them the support they needed to make it to the Games at which point it is mostly out of her hands. When Brit confronted her about this on their first Reaping day together, the only one he had ever arrived in good time to, Katari just smiled. Her face graced with a knowing look that gave Brit his answer. For it was a look that read "Well, it worked didn't it?"

Katari sat on the stage, her hair being wound around her finger. A gesture that subsided as Brit made his way towards her before dropping down onto the empty seat. As soon as he touched the seat, the mayor rushed up to the podium so he could be ready for another recitation of the same old speech.

Brit fiddled with his fingers while the mayor rambled on about honor and doing your best for the District since the former just happened to more interesting to him. Not surprisingly, the crowd stared apathetically back at the poor old food from beginning to end. No one from District Ten had made it home in fifteen years. Thirty children left, never to see the sprawling fields they grew up in again.

The mayor welcomed the escort onto the stage when he finished his excuse for a district address. The woman's bright, almost crazed smile didn't leave her face as she walked up to the girl's bowl. Brit fought the urge to roll his eyes, preferring to leave a scowl on his face instead. Thankfully, it didn't take long for the escort to pick and open a slip, her shrill voice ringing out from speakers was a painful experience for everyone listening.

"Arleen Gavelle."

However, for that girl's family and friends, their world was now crumbling down, shaken to its core by the mere articulation of her name. To her credit, the red haired girl wasted no time in making her way to the stage having appeared out of the eighteen year old section. Safe to say, the anger inside her was about overflow and spill if her shaking fists and furious expression had anything to say. Brit watched as Arleen took her place on the stage, her head moving over to look at the escort who did the worst possible thing imaginable. She smiled that insane smile of hers.

"Stop with that fucking smile," Arleen's voice was harsh and blunt. It caused the escort to waver for a moment. Arleen took this opportunity to continue with her tirade.

"No one else here is smiling, which makes yours even more annoying so get it off your fucking dumb face."

There was no sound in the square apart from a few stifled giggles. Brit found himself trying to suppress a smile as the escort shuffled towards the boys' bowl under the weight of the female tribute's glare. It was not hard to tell that Arleen was District Ten born and bred; the people who tended to the livestock have always had this certain way of speaking. One that managed to have its own... special charm.

This time, the escort made no attempt to search through the bowl. Instead, she just whipped one right off the top and before anyone had realized, she'd already spoken his name.

"Declan Whittacre."

The seventeen years all seemed to move at once, shifting back and forth on their feet in order to locate the now reaped boy. Soon enough they found him. They parted graciously so he could have a clear walk to the stage, although the blonde boy doesn't seem to react at first. The peacekeepers had just begun to move when Declan took a short, unsure step forward. And then another. Soon enough, he was beside his district partner who Declan reached out his hand to. Brit raises an eyebrow at this. Typically, the escort had to at least suggest, if not force, the tributes to shake hands. To see him offer it to Arleen, whose first instinct seemed to be some kind of doubt before she reluctantly took it, was different. It was rather unusual in all honesty.

Brit acknowledged he had his features set in his 'thinking face'. He couldn't help it even as the tributes were being taken away. Arleen seemed to be trying to keep distance between her and Declan who gave her nothing but an honest glance in return. Brit stood up from his seat, cracking his neck when he reached his feet. He turned down to see Katari who was still starting at the tributes.

"I'll have Declan if you don't mind," Brit said matter-of-factly for he knew Katari wouldn't give him any opposition.

"Sure, that sounds fine," Katari answered. Nonetheless, Brit could tell her focus wasn't on them. No, it was on the figures surrounded by a mass of peacekeepers. After a short silence, Katari also rose from her seat. She made eye contact with Brit.

"Arleen probably won't want to ally with Declan. She seems like she's too angry, too doubtful. And he's too honest. Are you going to be okay with that?" Katari waited for him to reply. Brit paused, then a grin broke onto his face.

"Of course I'll be fine with that. It's more of a question if you will be okay with it, Katari."

Her face lifted up a little. Brit turned and made his way down the steps. He didn't bother him at all if his tribute allied with Katari's or not. He wasn't supposed to try and help her home. That wasn't his job.

He only had to do one thing; get Declan Whittacre back to District Ten. Let him hope that it will be sixteenth times' a charm. Brit knew though. He knew that it wouldn't happen.

This time next year, it'd be thirty two children staring back at him on Reaping Day.

* * *

**A/N: Long wait, sorry. Blame school. And Netflix. And Once Upon A Time. And Food. Also, we switched to third person for various reasons, mostly because the majority of us are more comfortable with third person.**

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_**Which tribute in this batch was your favorite?**_

**_Which tribute overall was your favorite? _**

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**Leave your thoughts in a review! Even if you're behind, don't feel the need to... remain hidden? Answer the questions, go over the POVs; do whatever you're comfortable with. It's nice to here back from y'all.**

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**See you soon! (We mean it this time.)**


	6. New Beginnings

_Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end._

* * *

**_Goodbyes._**

* * *

**Cohen Veridie, District One Male**

* * *

He almost felt bad for them, and he was the one going into the Games.

Cohen watched as yet another one of his "friends" left the room and shut the door gently behind them. The poor girl had been on the verge of tears. Now that she was on the other side, Cohen thought he could hear the muffled sobs of her heart. He wasn't sure though, since, for all he knew, they could have been for Adelaide. After a few seconds, he decided that they were in fact for him. That he was the recipient of that girl's tears. A girl that he himself neither truly cared about or would think about again.

It was the best thing he could have asked for. You didn't cry for someone you didn't like; you only shed tears for those you cared about and while that list might have been short for Cohen, short as in practically non-existent, he was on the lists of many others. To him, that was all that mattered.

For Cohen was too selfish, too self-centered to bother about other people. Sure, he wanted them to like him. He wanted them to give him attention. Approval. The thing is, Cohen did at least strive for what he wanted.

As unintelligent as he might be, it didn't take even him long to realize that people like those who were happy. Who were positive. Who were just nice, genuine people. Cohen knew what he had to do in order to achieve the affection of those around him. It worked, for the most part. They were some, the more perceptive of his peers, that realized Cohen's caring attitude was fake or, at the very least, false.

Luckily, they were the minority. However, Cohen still tried to win them over. He couldn't help himself. He couldn't stop being especially nice to them. As cliched as it sounds, he was addicted to being in everyone's good books. He couldn't handle not being in them. It's the most magnificent of hypocritical situations. Cohen doesn't care for others but he needs them to care about him.

The irony of it all has long since passed him by.

The huge double doors swung open suddenly. That didn't surprise Cohen since he was so sure that other people were going to come visit him. They must be lining up to come and see their future victor. When he looked up and made eye contact with his visitor though, a tiny part of Cohen was shocked. Because of all the people he believed were going to come and see him, Brodie was nowhere near the top of his imaginary queue.

"Brodie," Cohen could barely control his smile. A genuine smile. The older boy moved quickly, sitting down on the chair opposite Cohen. Brodie leaned forward, his hands resting on his thighs.

"Cohen, what are you doing?" Brodie asked. Cohen's smile fell away for a moment before it returned. This time it reeked of falseness.

"What am I doing?" Cohen echoed. Some emotion flashed across Brodie's face for a second , although he quickly recovered his composure.

"Cohen." Brodie's tone was stern and commanding. Cohen found himself giving Brodie all of his attention. It had always been like that; if Brodie spoke, then Cohen had to listen. When Brodie was positive he had Cohen's full attention, he started off.

"Why did you let them pick you as the volunteer? Don't you realize that chances are you're not coming home?" Cohen could scarcely believe it. Brodie was suppose to believe in him. They all were suppose to believe in him. Believe that he would come home. Yet, here he was, basically being told he should have denied the mentors when they asked him to volunteer. He was chosen out of hundreds of students. Hand picked by the victors themselves. How was he suppose to have said no to that?

"Shut up, Brodie. You don't know what you're talking about." Cohen tried to keep his voice light and jokey. Unfortunately, anyone could tell that slight hints of anger had began to slip in.

"I do. Training, it's just a phase," Brodie argued. Cohen cut him off before he could say anything.

"Yeah, sure it is."

"It is. I'm telling you it's nothing more than a teenage phase."

"For you it was. It was a phase for you. I'm not you, Brodie."

"Cohen, you wouldn't know if it was a phase or not. You haven't lived life in the real world. You've not had the chance to experience anything else. And now, you never will," Brodie superior tone was getting to Cohen. Every word that came out of his mouth only made Cohen more and more frustrated.

"You don't know anything. You weren't chosen to be the volunteer. I was," Brodie made an attempt to interrupt him, but Cohen carried on. "Back in the day, you were the man. The most popular guy in the whole Academy. I idolised you, I wanted to be you. Now, you're nothing. You work some deadbeat job that I know for a fact that you don't even like. I always thought you would be someone, Brodie. I guess I was wrong."

Brodie's face remained a mask for more than a few seconds. He placed his hands on the arm of the chair in order to push himself up to his feet. He looked down on Cohen who was horrified by his expression. It was a picture of pity. His lips moved gently as the words proceeded to flow out of his mouth.

"If I had been chosen to be the volunteer two years ago, I would be dead. I would be dead and no one, except my family, would remember I ever even existed. I'm glad I wasn't chosen, for it would have been one of the last times someone would say my name. At least until my funeral," Brodie moved away from Cohen, his feet carrying him to the door at which point he turned around to stare at the other boy once more. Something had been eating away at Cohen for a long time now, something which he just had to say now.

"Why did you change?" He asked, an unusual amount of innocence prevalent in his voice. Brodie considered it for a moment before answering.

"I didn't change. I just grew up," Brodie stated. Cohen didn't know how to react. His idol fell victim to what every teenager goes through eventually. Maturing into an adult, a true member of society.

"Goodbye, Cohen. It was nice knowing you." Cohen barely registered the closing slam of the door. If what Brodie said came true, he would never mature. He would never be a real part of District One life. Unless he won. Otherwise, he would be forgotten. Cohen would just be like all the rest who failed to win. A nameless tribute who achieved nothing except death.

Cohen couldn't let that happen. He had to win. The victors are admired and, perhaps more importantly, are alive. People shout out their names in joy. That was what Cohen wanted; the love of his District and the people in it. He was willing to do anything to achieve it.

Anything at all. Even killing. Twenty-three other teenagers need to die in order for him to win. Adelaide included. Cohen knew sooner or later she would have to die.

And as much as losing her appreciation might hurt him, he's pretty sure being forgotten would hurt even more. Even more than death.

* * *

**Shaila Avani, District Two Female**

* * *

The world felt light.

Each step was airy, practically intangible to her feet as the door to the Justice Building swung open and the Peacekeeper curtly ushered her inside. Everything from the clouds in the sky to the glamor of the décor surrounding her felt unreal. Like a dream.

It made sense, of course. Shaila was living her dream.

From day one, the Games were her destiny. They were her shot to becoming something more than what she already was. She loved who she was. She loved the life she had. But that never stopped her from craving more. From wanting more. From needing more.

And now, she had a shot to get it.

Two hard knocks beat against the door in rapid succession before the door promptly swung open. The interruption of her thoughts only dampened her joy a little before the beaming faces of Rosalina and Sherri once again put a grin on Shaila's face.

"You did it!" Rosalina exclaimed, picking Shaila up and spinning her. "You really did it!"

Shaila squealed in response, giggling giddily as the trio shared the moment with one another. "Did you ever have a doubt?"

Sherri smirked as Rosalina let Shaila feel the ground once again. "Well-"

"Shut up," Shaila shot good-heartedly, playfully smacking her arm's shoulder, to which Sherri flinched and sniffed distastefully. "Wuss," she teased. Sherri only shot her tongue out in response.

Two more knocks against the wooden door alerted them all of their dwindling time together. Shaila forced the smile to stay on her face despite the slight sadness she felt welling in her chest. "You two better not replace me before I'm back. I'll kill the bitch. Then you."

Rosalina smiled ruefully, pulling the three friends into a tight hug. "Who could replace Shaila?"

Sherri tapped her finger on her chin. "Hm, maybe Alexis. Or Delana. Or-"

"Ew, Delana," Rosalina muttered. "Maybe she'd be alright if she wasn't the town bike."

As per usual, Rosalina and Sherri burst into a full-out gossip despite the circumstances, and if Shaila closed her eyes, everything changed. She wasn't leaving for good. She was at home, laying on her bed and listening to the banter and the gossip at just another sleepover. When she closed her eyes, she felt her old life coming back to her.

Her eyes flashed open as the doors swung open, a Peacekeeper beside it. "Ms. Avani, your allotted time with these visitors has elapsed."

Rosalina hurriedly scooped Shaila and Sherri in once last hug, relishing every last moment they had together. Shaila struggled to fight off the emotion that waddled in her throat. "Don't forget me."

Sherri frowned. "You'll only be gone for-"

"Just in case," Shaila murmured, putting on a strong face as the Peacekeeper ushered her friends out. As soon as the doors shut, Shaila slowly took a seat on the nearest chair, letting herself reminisce in the memories her friends before silently kissing them goodbye.

She had no room for fond memories anymore. If she was to come back, she only had room for herself. No one else.

The trademark two knocks warned her of incoming visitors, and Shaila instinctively bounced up and threw on a smile. No room for weakness, either. No room for pathetic emotions, and no room for love. Nothing.

The pride in her parents' eyes was the first thing Shaila noticed. _Not even them._

"Oh, sweetheart," her mother whispered, rushing to her only daughter with compassion practically oozing from her. "My baby," she murmured, running her hands through her daughter's hair. Her father approached her quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder and smiling.

"We could never be more proud," he appended. "You're everything we could ever ask for."

Shaila buried herself in her mother's perfectly combed hair, and for once, her mother said nothing as Shaila's face ruined her hair. All too soon, doubts crowded her mind, and she knew better than anyone that she had no room for this. She forfeited her perfect life for… a chance?

She shook her head, trying and failing to withhold her tears. Stupid. She was being stupid. She had dedicated her life to this. Her entire life would've been for naught had she let these doubts distort her vision. Shaila buried her doubt with a firm resolve.

"Don't be scared," her father instructed firmly as she disentangled herself from her mother's hair. "You've earned this, Shaila. This is-"

"My chance," she finished, nodding. Her father was right. This was her life. Always had been, always will be. Nothing could change that, including her and her needless worries.

Her mother cupped Shaila's face in her hands, smiling through the tears that also stained her cheeks. "That's right, Shay. This is… this is everything you'd ever wanted. Take it."

Shaila opened her mouth to agree as she always had, but something held her back. This was her last chance to speak to her parents. This was her last chance to be herself with them. Shaila lowered her guard as she backpedaled from her parents. "Why didn't you stop me?"

Her father knitted his eyebrows in concern. "Shaila, are you feeling alri-"

"I'm fine," she said hastily. The two knocks on the door felt louder than before. Sharper. Harsher. "Why did you let me give my life up?"

Her parents shared a look with one another before turning to their daughter. Her mother stepped forward, only for Shaila to step back. "You wanted this. You wanted your life to be better, remember? This… this is what you wanted."

The door swung open behind her parents, and he opened his mouth to order her parents to leave before seeing her tear-stained face and hesitating. "Your time is… almost over."

Shaila nodded appreciatively, turning to her parents and nodding. Her guard returned, and her instinctive smile spread across her face. "You're right," she agreed. Her parents cheered considerably, wrapping her in yet another hug. Their final hug. Shaila felt another wave of tears strike her, but this time, Shaila fought it off.

As her parents left her with a mixture of relief and doubt in their eyes, Shaila once again shut her eyes and buried the memory of her family deep down, not to be opened again. Not until she was back here. Not until she was home.

Until then, she had no room for her family. No room for her friends. No room for her memories.

She only had room for herself.

* * *

**Abner Demerath, District Eleven Male**

* * *

He didn't understand what was happening.

Jethro ran around the room, his eyes fixating on the excessive decoration that bounced around the sunlight in a way that was exceptionally pretty. If Abner was here in different circumstances, he would have no problem appreciating its beauty as well. However, that wasn't the case.

Abner had already recognized the reality of his situation. He was reaped for the Hunger Games. And in a short few weeks, he will be fighting to the death with twenty-three other children. He hadn't even seen the rest of the tributes but he already knew he was at a disadvantage for two big reasons.

One, he was only thirteen. Yes, there have been other thirteen year old victors in the past so, despite how rare they might sound, they do exist. Nonetheless, it's the second reason that is the big one. It's very simple in all honesty and it was a fact that Abner had grown accustomed to.

The fact that he was deaf.

It was a consequence of a disease that ravaged the district eight years ago. Many young children died and those that did survive often ended up with some kind of disability. Abner tended to find himself as one of the lucky ones. Being deaf was a great burden, however, others had burdens which were much greater than his. He could still walk on his two feet. He could still work with his two hands. For that, Abner made sure to be thankful. His opportunity of a second chance at life was still there for him to make the most of.

He wouldn't let the Games cut that short.

At this point, Jethro had expelled most of his energy so the three year old toddler plopped on the sofa beside his older brother. Their father sat in the single chair while their mother was on Abner's right hand side, her tough yet gentle hand holding his. Jethro tapped Abner on the leg so he could try to get his brother's attention. It only took a few moments for Abner to react as he turned around to see Jethro's smiling face. He moved his lips in pronounced and forceful movements. It was a question filled with easy words so Abner had no problem understanding what he was being asked. The question itself though, was not so easy to answer.

"Where are you going?"

Jethro was lucky in a way. He was still too young to know what was happening. Too innocent to realize that once children left on those trains from District Eleven, they never returned. Forty years and not one has came back.

"I'm going away to the Capitol," Abner answered. Jethro's face funneled into a scowl.

"Are we coming?"

"No, you can't come." There were parts of Jethro's personality that you can easily tell come straight from Abner. This was one of them, since the worst thing you could tell the two of them is that they can't do something. Do that and you're just begging them to try even harder to do it.

"But why?"

"You're not allowed to."

"Why not?" With every question, Jethro was becoming more and more childishly angry. The pout was beginning to appear and the arms were threatening to be crossed.

"Because that's the rules."

Jethro went to start again but their father must have cut him off. Abner obviously didn't know exactly what was said, although it ended with Jethro having a full-on pout on his face so, chances are he was told off.

It was only a couple of minutes after this that the Peacekeepers went to show his family out. They all stood up at the same time, his mother's hand still tightly wound around his. She let it go after some persuasion from his father. However, swiftly she wrapped her arms around him and brought Abner into a tight hug. He returned it graciously. They held each other for as long as the Peacekeepers allowed them to which, as you can imagine, was about one fifth of the time any decent human being would have allowed them.

His father gave Abner a strong pat on the shoulder. In return, Abner gave him a reassuring smile. It came naturally to him. It always did. It never really matter what situation he found himself in, Abner seemed to always be able to find a smile. To him, it was a simple idea. That the trickier parts of life were easily to handle and get through if you faced them with a smile.

He knelled down and motioned at Jethro to come over to him. Jethro ran over, swinging his arms around Abner's neck. Abner gripped him tightly. He didn't want to let go. He wanted to stay here with his family. He wanted to go back and see the fields that had provided a constant backdrop for his life.

None of him wanted to leave. That made it all the more painful for him because he knew he had to.

Jethro waved goodbye as he was being ushered out by their father. Abner waved back for what was most likely the last time he would ever see his brother. Just before they could shut the door, Jethro swiveled back around so he could face Abner. With the kind of grace that only comes with practice, Jethro performed three gestures in a row. First, he pointed to his eye, then he made a heart shaped with hands and finally, he aimed his finger at Abner. It had a simple meaning and one that Abner had no problem reciprocating

It meant I love you and as the peacekeepers shut the door, the thought crossed Abner's mind that that could be the last time someone said they loved him.

With every single thing he had, Abner hoped it wouldn't turn out like that.

* * *

**Aline Carron, District Twelve Female**

* * *

She held her head up.

Aline fell into autopilot as soon as her name left the lips of that useless human being that picked her against all the stupid odds, and that meant perfect posture and an indifferent expression. It was how she was brought up. Don't smile. Don't falter. Don't mess up. One mistake was one too many. Failure was not acceptable.

Even as she was left to her own devices for however long, Aline didn't dare to lower her guard. Surprises were at every corner, and if she wasn't ready, she'd be overwhelmed. She'd fail.

Aline hated surprises.

Especially now, when her life was destined to either be constantly broadcast or end early and brutally, Aline refused to let herself be taken off-guard. She didn't care who she offended or whatever happiness she sacrificed; nothing was worth her life. If she had to give up her social life, potential happiness, anything, for her life, she'd do it.

There were some things that were worth more than happiness and love and joy. Life was one of them. Aline was not going to let her own naïve desires take her life away from her. And she sure as hell not going to let anyone else ruin that chance, either.

Aline withdrew herself from her thoughts as the uncouth Peacekeeper slammed the door open. She flinched at the bang, turning to the man with a sneer. "Do you not know how to work that?"

"Shut up, scum," he growled gruffly. "You have visitors."

She scowled. "You don't say," she muttered under her breath.

"What was that?" he barked, raising an eyebrow and twirling his baton conspicuously. The glint in his eyes taunted her, daring her to overstep. The malicious baring of his teeth only made her want to sock him in the eye, but she knew better. This was her emotions taking control of her. This was the road to failure.

Aline grit her teeth, agitatedly grinding them together. "I was only complimenting your outfit."

The Peacekeeper's eyes flashed with disappointment for a moment before he proceeded to fiddle with his uniform. "Gee, thanks. Perhaps you could borrow it sometime," he added. "Oh, wait. You'll be dead." The man grinned for a moment before his attention snapped to the right. He cleared his throat abruptly. "Right this way," he said curtly, steering Aline's mother into her room.

Her mother narrowed her eyes at Aline's snarl as the pathetic excuse of a Peacekeeper left. "And what is this?" she muttered, gesturing irritably with her hands. Her finger jabbed into Aline's cheek, sneering. "Either put on a good face or I'll tear you a new one."

Aline pressed her lips into a thin line. "Mother, he was-"

"I don't care what he was or wasn't, it was your place to shut up and listen."

"But he was an idiot!"

Her mother smiled dangerously, and Aline instinctively shrunk into herself. That look alone made her who she is. She knew what it meant. "Are you talking back to me?" she asked far too happily.

"No, ma'am," Aline responded mechanically. Her eyes veered to the right of her mother's, but her posture remained unflawed. The last thing she wanted was to push her even farther. Aline was many things, but she wasn't stupid. At least not stupid enough to push her mother off her rocker.

"Good," her mother answered curtly. She turned to her daughter with something akin to… not kindness, but perhaps approval. Better than usual. "It's in your best interest to remember what I've taught you. And if you're to die, don't tarnish all my hard work," she said carefully, without her usual conviction and icy tone. For the first time Aline could remember, her mother failed to hold her eye contact.

Aline opened her mouth to speak, but her mother shook her head quickly. "I'm not feeling well; I'm going to have to excuse myself," she said hurriedly, moving quickly for the door. As her hand connected with the wooden surface, she hesitated. Her mother turned to her one last time and nodded to her. "Just remember."

Her mother sharply barged through the door, and before the door even shut, the figure of a tall woman slipped through the door. Holland Beaurecross – presumably her mentor - smiled at her mother, who, naturally, glowered back before taking a seat beside her. "_Just remember," _Holland recited pensively. "Now what did that mean? Just remember her rules? Or… perhaps remember her?"

"Were you _snooping _on me?"

Holland laughed. "Call it what you'd like; my job is to help you. And if I have any chance of helping you, I need to know who you are. What makes you tick. Who made you who you are. Something tells me your mother fits that last bill."

Aline's nostrils flared as she stood indignantly. "You have no right to speak to me like that," she hissed, but Holland only smiled.

"Usually, tributes are grateful for my help."

"Usually, your help doesn't work and your tributes die." Aline felt a pang of success as Holland's annoying front crumpled, if only for a moment.

"Well, we'll have to change that, now won't we?" Holland murmured chirpily, pep dampened and feelings hurt. Aline suppressed a scoff. It looked like she was expecting the same old spineless Seam kid. Sad to say, she'd be disappointed.

"There is no we," Aline retorted bluntly. "I don't need you, and even if I did, you've done a pretty good job of showing everyone that you're not too good at your job. Thanks, anyway."

With that, Aline rose from her seat on the velvet chair and exited the Building. These Games were for her and her alone. If she was going to leave, it would be her own doing. No one else's.

* * *

**A/N: Not too long a wait. The next one is more than halfway done, so we'll be gauging the next update after people have a chance to read/review and the like. And since I feel this is necessary to say, we won't be giving up or ending early. This story will be completed to the fullest under just about any circumstance. The speed of said completion is for another chat, but this story _will_ finish. **

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_**Favorite POV? **_

_**Favorite tribute of this trio?**_

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**Also, there's a blog under the name of The Victor Verse on my profile. This has absolutely no correlation to this story; it was more or less a way of killing time while being bored. Check it out; doubtless, you'll recognize most of the faces. :) **

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**Until next time!**


	7. Flaws

_"There are few things as threatening to us as individuals as a person who perceives our worst flaws, especially when those flaws are all they see." _

* * *

**District One**

* * *

"Stop it," Adelaide chided Cohen lightly.

Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, back straight. The Reaping recaps played out on the television, but it was quite evident neither of them were listening. Adelaide was trying, but Cohen's general lack of focus and the fact that he seemed more intent on disturbing her was distracting.

The brunette faltered a little, his smile waning. A conflicted expression flickered over his face. Averting his eyes from her, he turned to the television. Guilt seized Adelaide's heart. A voice at the back of her mind told her to be colder but she found no such will in herself. One glance at the mentors told her they were watching them.

She looked at the screen. The Reapings flashing across it. They had been taught to analyze from mere reaping reactions but Adelaide always found it a waste of time. No one really knew how much of the reactions were a fabrication until they actually met the tributes. Her fingers interlocked with each other. At least she, as a career, already had an alliance set for her.

Her skin prickled with anxiety.

Trying her best to ignore it, not to think about the uncertainties plaguing her, she trained her gaze on Cohen. He was bouncing his left leg up and down, humming. He looked at her and grinned. Ignoring the Reaping replay, he faced the other three.

"Any tips," he asked. "Like how to win the heart of the crowd, or prove our superiority over the other tributes? Not like it hasn't been proven already but…"

His tone was jovial, hazel eyes alight with amusement, lips curled into a most charming grin.

It would have sounded arrogant coming from anyone else.

But not from him.

"Why is this such a joke to you?" Adelaide demanded harshly.

Her voice had risen a notch. But her fingers were still intertwined with each other, the only sign of her irritation being that they had tightened their grip on one another. Her expression did not change though her eyebrow did twitch slightly.

"A joke?" Cohen's left eyebrow creased in confusion.

"Our lives are on the line here. But you're being so carefree about it!"

She had spent years studying the Hunger Games, committing each anomaly, each arena, each topic – everything to memory. Training; every technique and move was practically muscle memory now.

And even then, who knew if she really held the ability to become one of the prized Victors?

"I- I'm sorry," Cohen apologized. "I just-" Adelaide waited in silence as she watched him fumble for words. "I just have my own way of coping?"

He smiled hopefully at Adelaide. A glint of something insincere flashed in his eyes, but before Adelaide could catch it again, Cohen turned away.

Words failed her. The only thing she knew to do was to nod solemnly.

"Let's watch the Reapings recap all over again," Silicus announced. "The two of you weren't paying attention at all."

Adelaide snapped to attention.

"I don't see the point in it. We'll be able to better analyze them during training. The reaping reactions wouldn't tell us anything conclusive."

Cohen nodded behind her though not knowing anything helpful he could add in.

Navaeh chuckled. She clasped her hands together and nodded, the edges of her lips tugged up into a widening smile.

Adelaide got the vague impression she said something right.

"I agree with her, Silicus," Navaeh said smoothly. She stood. "Let's leave Adelaide and Cohen to get to know each other better."

Her tone broached no complains. Silicus did not seem all that begrudging, however, as he rose. Smiling at the duo, they walked past them and into another room.

"I'm Cohen Veridie," the boy smiled warmly at his partner.

"I know that already."

He shrugged.

"I thought it'll be nice to, y'know, introduce ourselves formally or something." He waved his hands around, laughing a little.

Her lips curled into a little smile.

"Adelaide Marchal. It is a pleasure to meet you."

His right eyebrow shot up.

"I would have thought it wouldn't be with your initial reaction." Despite what he said, he seemed quite pleased.

It took a few moments for Adelaide to decide, but she ultimately moved to sit beside Cohen. The seconds ticked by, stretching out into minutes, as did the silence. But it was not an uncomfortable one. They both sat in silence, each trying to find something to say but failing to. Eventually, she decided it was up to her to break the ice.

"You don't really seem like the typical person who would be chosen as volunteer," she said carefully.

'Get to know each other' their mentors had said. It was a good idea to build rapport between each other lest something happened during the actual games, then they would have each other's back. But Adelaide had to remind herself not to get too attached. Cohen was not entirely unlikable. Only one could survive in the end, though.

That question would be a good way to gauge Cohen too, she decided.

"I have my own reasons," he answered playfully. "I didn't expect to be chosen, actually."

"Me, either," she confessed. In hindsight, she had shone and shown the most improvement in all her classes. But she did it only out of interest. Not because she wanted to earn glory or any other bullshit the Academy liked feeding the more delusional trainees.

Cohen still smiled at her but it had changed a little. It seemed to lose its cheerful quality, becoming almost pensive.

"I guess we're similar in that way," he mused.

"I guess we are," she agreed.

Maybe she could get along with him.

She observed him closer and saw the way his eyes shone with childish delight.

"Right!" he exclaimed suddenly. "It's nice to meet you too, Adelaide."

Against her better judgement, she felt herself beam at him.

* * *

**District Two**

* * *

Priston winced as Shaila forcefully slammed the door behind her.

He just wanted her to like him. He just wanted them all to like him. Not pity him, smile with distaste laced in their eyes, or pat him on the head like a dog. A smile graced his boyish face, despite being bluntly rejected by his district partner. He was a tribute now. They could call him whatever they wanted, but they couldn't deny him that much.

He had trained, and he was the best. They might have disregarded him before, but they couldn't ignore him any longer.

The doors of the compartment slid open behind him, yet Priston remained entranced in his own daydreams, grinning off into the distance. The trees that zoomed outside the door held his attention captive.

Grant rolled his eyes as he eyed this year's sorry excuse of a tribute. This... Grant grimaced as the memory bubbled back. This idiot was a disgrace to what he stood for. What he had fought for.

What Payton had fought for.

He shook his head. That was the past. Grant wasn't going to spend his life dwelling in what he couldn't change, even if the present gave him migraines.

Priston finally noticed the Victor's presence as Grant collected a bottle of water from the counter. "Oh, hey!" he said with a grin. "Didn't see you there!"

Grant shot him a glare. "And here I was, hoping it'd stay that way."

The insult bounced right off of Priston. After years of enduring far worse at home, Priston had stopped acknowledging petty words. He didn't even notice the malice in Grant's eyes. "Not feeling well? Or were you looking for some alone time with Shaila?" Priston paused. "Or maybe some alone time with Lorayn?" he continued, waggling his eyebrows playfully.

A chill ran up Grant's back at _her_ name. The fluke, the unwanted underdog. Lorayn didn't deserve what she had, and she treated it like it was a punishment. As if being bathed in riches, attention, affection, and opportunity was a death threat hanging above her.

She disgusted him.

"No," he growled coldly. "I wasn't looking for Lorayn."

Priston frowned. "Shaila, then?"

A snarl took over Grant's icy features. He opened his mouth to shoot the idiot down and spit a bit of venom at him, but he realized it was no use. He was just wasting his breath with him. Might as escape while he could. "Yeah, Shaila. We need to talk about… training and stuff."

Priston beamed at the mention of training. "That's great! Maybe I could come with? Careers gotta stick together, right?"

"Actually, Lorayn and I agreed that we would train you two separately," Grant responded curtly. It wasn't even a lie. Lorayn might be an ungrateful little child, but she wasn't stupid. If they trained tributes together, both of them knew it'd end with Grant ripping her head off. Everything about her was pathetic, and it killed him to just be near her. Grant hesitated slightly as he Priston deflated before him. "Kid, you still have Lorayn. But you're her problem, and her problem exclusively."

"Oh," Priston murmured dejectedly. He perked up slightly after a moment. "Hey, do you know where Lorayn is?"

Grant smiled coldly as he made as way for the exit. "Probably crying into a pillow. Have fun with that!"

Priston raised his hand to ask for something a little more specific, but Grant was gone before he had the chance to speak. He quirked his lips as he returned to his spot at the table across the window and the zooming trees. Alone. Rejected twice, now. Thrice if Lorayn's indifference regarding him counted. No one lied him. No one wanted to help him.

Nothing new, right?

Shaila flinched as someone slammed her compartment door open. "Really? Does the Capitol not condone knocking anymore?" she hissed irritably as she hopped off her bed. She met Grant's raised eyebrow and felt herself seize under his intense glare. _He can't crush your dreams anymore. Have a backbone._

"Feisty, are we now?" Grant observed with a haughty grin. "Not like you to lose your head. Lemme guess: Priston."

Shaila nodded. She wasn't the kind of person to blow up on people, and she certainly wasn't the kind of person that got annoyed easily. She genuinely liked being social and having a good time, but there had to be a line drawn somewhere. Some things weren't meant to be said aloud. Training taught her that levelheadedness led to success, and she devoutly followed what she'd learned in training.

But Priston made her want to jump off the train.

At first, he wasn't too bad. He was endearing and nervous, twitchy and charming in his own sort of way. He talked of home, and his smile reminded Shaila of her brother. He wasn't much, but he was a piece of home. He was irreplaceable.

And then, he started talking. Non-stop. He spat out random questions about life, about the Games, about _snails_. She'd played along, smiled whilst praying that this was just a result of the recent Reaping. Nerves might've pushed him to be a little antsy; it was understandable.

Then she noticed Grant and Lorayn popping an aspirin and quickly making his way into their respective compartments with pointed glares directed at the little brat. Any attentive trainee would know that there was bad blood between them and that they were polar opposites. If they agreed on anything at all, it must be common sense.

Fleeing Priston was rather sensible.

"How in the hell did he beat out the rest of the trainees?" Shaila muttered with a frown.

Grant shrugged. "Believe it or not, he has his strong suits."

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't want anything to do with _that, _talented or not_._"

"Don't lose your head," Grant instructed with a reprimanding look. "Priston might be a pain, but don't let that ruin your connection with the Careers. They're already be weary of you – Two has taken two wins in a row now – don't let Priston be that last straw."

Shaila scrunched her eyebrows together. "They'll hate him, anyway. It'll only take a day before they throw him out."

"Then let them decide. The last thing Careers want to see in an ally is obstinacy," Grant ordered firmly.

Subconsciously, Shaila found herself nodding readily as Grant departed her. She winced at the petty follower that she was. That she always was. She had been foolish to think that volunteering for the Games would change that.

But more importantly, it _could_ change her life. She could validate her hard work and her integrity as a person through these Games, and believing in that wasn't foolish. It wasn't an unreachable dream or goal that was always out of reach.

It was right in front of her. This was all up to her, nobody else. She had the power to control her own fate, for the first time in a long time. It was all in her hands.

And that scared her more than anything else.

* * *

**District Three**

* * *

Theon plopped into his chair with a sullen glare that managed to split itself between Celesto and Letricia. While the former met his gaze with one of his own, Letricia shrunk into herself to avoid him. Pathetic. "And why am I here?"

Celesto scowled at him as he took a seat between his two tributes. "We," he started, patting both of them on the back, "are here to learn about each other."

A smile of pure sarcasm spread across Theon's face. "Suppose we didn't want to learn; what would happen then?"

Celesto's blunt expression made Theon hesitate for a moment, even before he opened his mouth. "If that's the case, you should look for a new mentor. These Games are yours to play, but until you get in that arena, we play by my rules. Understand?"

"Of course," supplied Letricia, who fervently nodded alongside her mentor. Celesto flashed her a small smile before turning to Theon.

"Understand?"

Theon fought off the sneer that begged to be released onto his face. "Yes," he muttered begrudgingly, turning away from the two idiots before he lost control and stormed off. Celesto could have control of every last second before he set foot in the arena, but once that time elapsed, Theon was in control.

He smiled smugly as Celesto's attention moved to Letricia. He could bite his tongue until the arena. He could play by any rules that were thrown at him, Celesto's included. Theon quickly transformed his sarcasm into sincerity as Celesto turned his attention back to him.

A moment of hesitation passed over his mentor's face as he identified the earnest gleam in Theon's eyes. It took him another couple of seconds to find the pretentious coloring in the very same eyes. Celesto suppressed an eye roll; he should've known better. People never changed.

Yet the accusation remained at the tip of his tongue. He cast a glance to Letricia, who had finally started to open up to him. Every snarl he sent towards Theon pushed Letricia farther away. Celesto fought off the temptation to kick Theon off the train as he threw on a toothy smile to both his tributes. "Who wants to go first?"

Letricia leaned forward in her chair, letting herself smile a little as Celesto turned to her with an inviting smile. That smile, that gleam in his eyes… it reminded her of home. Of happiness. Of yesterday. And then she remembered that she had left that behind hours ago, never to be seen again.

And just as before, her smile died.

But the hopeful look in Celesto's eyes nearly killed her. He kept nudging her, wanting to find some fight that she knew didn't exist. She just didn't have the heart to tell him that he was better off with Theon. Not yet, at least. She shrugged to them. "There's not to tell, honestly," she chirped, grinning. The twinkle in Celesto's eyes made it easier to let the words flow out of her.

"My mom's a manager at Yeltz Enterprise, and my dad works at the Justice Building with all the Peacekeepers. Guns, numbers, violence, and the like. Not exactly my scene. My little sister-"

Celesto cut her off with a slight raise of his hand. "That's all great, Letricia, but your family isn't who I'm interested in. I – we – want to hear about you."

"Oh," she responded with a small smile. "Sorry about that." She paused, shocked that she couldn't find the right words to describe herself. Sixteen years of life wasn't interesting enough. No, she realized. _Her_ sixteen years weren't interesting enough." There's a lot less to say than I thought," she murmured nervously.

Celesto leaned in, praying that Letricia would take the bait and actually talk to him. The meek girl he met two hours ago wouldn't last a minute with the Capitol. This was her fighting chance. "Maybe you should start off with who you were," he offered. "Your past makes you."

Letricia shrugged. "I grew up lucky. There was always enough food, friends, fun. I rarely felt sad or down, and when I did, there was always someone there for me." She looked out the window wistfully. "Until now, I guess."

For a second, Celesto was tempted to tell her that he would be there for her. Anything to get her to open up, catch the attention of someone. But lying this early was too much. This was where he drew the line. "There's a first for everything."

The glimmer in her eyes dimmed considerably, and all Celesto could do was sit. He could help them, but he couldn't change them. Distance, he reminded himself. It was so much easier before. Before, when he was sure that he would only be alone for a couple of years. When he thought he wouldn't have to bear this burden alone for too long.

And here he was, twenty years later.

To his surprise, Theon pulled the situation out of the thick silence. "Well, I guess it's my turn," he said cheerfully, cracking his fingers. "My parents run the butcher shop at home. When they go out, I run the shop." A moony smile filled Theon's features, and a growing sense of dread blossomed in Celesto's gut, but he forced it down. He would at least give him a chance.

"The blood of the animals… it makes me feel at home. It's comfortable, what I'm used to," Theon murmured dreamily, grinning with all his teeth bared.

Letricia cleared her throat, disturbance clear in her eyes. "I think I should get a little rest," she said hurriedly, scurrying into her private car and locking the door behind her.

As soon as the door separated her from the others, Letricia threw herself on the bed, burying her head in the pillow. Already, she felt lost. Isolated. Celesto could pretend to understand her, but it was pretty evident that he just wanted her to talk to him. And Theon… what was he? How was she supposed to compete with the competition from the other districts when she couldn't even take the competition from her own home? How could she found herself among the tributes from the far corners of Panem when she couldn't find herself with two boys from her own district?

The answer was simple, of course. She wouldn't.

Celesto sneered as the door slammed shut. "What the hell was that for?" he growled lowly, careful not to raise his voice past the point of audibility to Letricia. "The butcher doesn't have a cat for company, let alone a kid. You have twenty seconds to explain yourself."

"Is someone feeling sad?" Theon chuckled. "Let's not be modest, now. You very well know what that was for. Proof."

For the first time in a long time, Celesto was happy to not know the answer. "Proof for what?"

"Oh," Theon exclaimed, letting his mouth form an 'o' as he took a seat on the sink counter. "You really have gotten soft, huh. Take a look around, Celesto. Letricia couldn't handle a chat of contrived animal blood. How would she handle real, human blood?"

"Where is this headed?"

Theon smirked. "Come, now. Even a big softie can see what's right in front of them. Letricia is a lost cause. Stop wasting your time on something that will never pay you back." The younger boy turned to leave before hesitating and swiveling back to his mentor. "Maybe that's why you're still alone after all these years."

Celesto grimaced as the hard truth of it all settled in on him. He knew Theon was right. That made it all the worse; he knew that he couldn't let his heart choose. He knew what he needed to do. He had to choose Theon.

But old habits died hard. "C'mon, Letricia," he murmured to the empty dining room table. "Let's prove this bastard wrong."

* * *

**District Four**

* * *

Marisa smiled at her tributes as she approached their table, effectively a rerun of the Reapings. "Do you know why Careers win?"

Vice and Aelia shared a look with one another, but it was Aelia that spoke up first. "Careers win because they're trained. Now if you don't mind-"

"I do mind, actually," Marisa cut in frankly, taking a seat in between Vice and Aelia. Vice frowned as she did so, and he couldn't help but look for Talise – the mentor that at least appeared to be sane – only to find her chuckling to herself on a nearby couch.

Marisa turned to Vice next. "And you, young man? Why do Careers win?"

He shrugged. "What Aelia said. We win because we're trained. The weapons are just extensions of us, and the tributes from the outer districts can barely hold a sword up."

Marisa smiled, seemingly pleased with both of their answers. "Then why do you suppose that Careers don't always win? Why are there flukes?"

Aelia tried to mask her distaste for her mentor as best as she could. She signed up to train to fight and make something more of herself, not to play twenty questions with a lunatic. But making the woman mad now would just make her favor Vice over her. Vice, who she had quickly learned was painfully similar to Aelia, herself. It was like looking at a mirror and hearing herself speak.

Luckily for Aelia, Marisa's games only bemused Vice. "Every rule has exceptions. Sometimes, the outer districts band together and overpower the Careers. Or the Careers split early and the other tributes take advantage of that."

"Then why don't the outer districts always band together? Why don't the Careers always avoid splitting early to ensure that one of them will win?"

Yet again, Vice and Aelia paused and glanced at each other. Aelia hated how closely Vice's frown matched hers.

Marisa continued on. "You two weren't far off, actually. Careers don't win because they're familiar with the weapons – any lumberjack from Seven could tell you that. We win for two reasons. For one, Careers win because they're familiar with death. Blood. Screams. That kind of torment is what throws off the outer districts. It's what makes them weak. And two, Careers win simply because of their numbers. More heads mean more killers."

Aelia frowned. "But you just asked us why the outer districts don't always band together. Why not?"

"Weakness and strength aren't things that stack. Having five weaklings hardly differs from having one. An alliance of twelve-year olds would struggle to bring down two lethal killers. And six lethal killers? Now how do you think a bunch of ragtag fighters would bring them down?"

"They don't," Vice answered.

Marisa grinned. With all her mind games and logic, it was easy to forget how young his mentor was, Vice noted dully. A mere three years had passed since Marisa brought home her victory. Vice had been at the Center when the Dean of the Academy announced Marisa as they chosen volunteer. Her smile was a reminder of that: something pure, innocent, good.

And yet, here she was, lecturing them about death.

"No, they don't. The table is slated towards us; we're meant to win. But the flukes do happen. There are but two scenarios where Careers don't win. First, your alliance isn't made of six lethal killers. Two true fighters and four wannabes can hardly call themselves the Careers. This isn't play pretend, anymore. No matter how good your fellow 'Careers' think they are, it's your job to set them straight. And secondly, should a pack of outer districts with actual spines manage to get together, I suppose that'd pose a threat."

A moment of silence passed over the three of them as Aelia and Vice drunk it all in. "The first part, I get," Aelia thought aloud. "We can identify our weak links and make sure they don't cause any harm to the ones that matter, but the others… how can we fix that?"

"Threats in the Games hardly know they're threats until their hands are dripping with someone's blood. And knowing that you're dangerous, acknowledging that you control your fate, feeling hope, that's more dangerous that any sword could ever be. Don't let them know what they have. Show them what you are, show them what they'll never be, and crush that little fleck of hope."

Marisa leaned in close to both Vice and Aelia, eyes lit with something that held Aelia captive. It was like she was being hypnotized. "Just believing in the future, as blind as it may be, is more powerful than you could ever imagine. You two have it. Doubtless, some of the others will have it. You can't change that. But the ones that have yet to feel hope need to stay that way. Limit the playing field."

She paused and looked at both Vice and Aelia. "Do you understand what you have to do?"

The tributes from Four shared yet another sideways glance at one another. Aelia supposed that she should just accept that they were two products of the Games, cultivated and sharpened with the same tools. It was only natural that they were practically the same person.

It was only natural that their answer was the same: "Of course."

* * *

**A/N: And there is the first Train Ride! The rate of the chapters has been less than great, but it'll (hopefully) pick up soon as summer has just started. **

* * *

**We played around with third person omniscient, so hit us up with whether or not you liked it. Reviews are really appreciated as they let us know that you're here and give us insight on what we're doing right and what we're doing wrong. Thanks for being awesome!**

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**See you soon!**


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